


Sometimes the Fire Burns too Hot Inside

by DraketheDragon



Series: Servant Shenanigans [4]
Category: Fate/Apocrypha, Fate/Grand Order, Fate/Zero, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anger Managment, Angst, Artoria's excellent parenting skills, Diarmuid is a little shit, F/F, F/M, Found Family Feels, Gen, Genderfluid Fujimaru Ritsuka, I am going to make that a tag singlehandedly if its the last thing I do, I don't know what is, I hope you all have tissues, I no longer have control, I told myself it wasn't going to happen in this fic, Kairi's actually excellent parenting skills, LONGEST CHARACTER STUDY EVER, M/M, Mild Language, MoFran is officially in here, Mordred and Artoria reunion, Mordred has lots of problems, Mordred is a bit of a potty mouth, Mordred-centric, Morgana's excellent parenting skills, Oblivious Mordred, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pretty much every relationship is a background relationship, Trans Mordred | Saber of Red, Triggers, and if that isn't an accurate description, and the numbers are tramas, because this is going to hurt, but I also told myself I wouldn't put my rarepair in here, but the dots are servants, critical role references, he also holds the single braincell, he/him pronouns for Mordred, i feel like, i'm doing connect the dots, of this fic, oh god so much angst, pop culture references, that he is going to work through, trama, yet here we are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:29:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 129,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26010427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DraketheDragon/pseuds/DraketheDragon
Summary: And now, in a different world, in a different time, Father was smiling. Mordred saw it often, when he was near the woman with the white hair and the red eyes, when he was sparring with Diarmuid, when he was talking with the Archer in red, when he was near any of the other Knights that had been summoned to Chaldea. Father was happy, and Mordred . . . was happy too. Or at least he should have been, because this was his wish, wasn’t it? But he couldn’t be happy, because Father wasn’t happy around him. And Mordred wanted to scream, to rage and yell, because every time Father’s smile slid off his face at the sight of the Knight of Rebellion, Mordred was transported back to that room, his news ringing in the air, his father’s indifference. Shouldn’t he have been happy too? Finally, it didn’t matter if Guinevere hadn’t produced a child, Mordred was his son! He had an heir! But his father hadn’t been happy, hadn’t even looked at him, and all the delight in Mordred’s heart had turned into hatred so great it choked off all logical thought.He thought he was better, he thought understanding what he wanted would help change that.But now, Father was happy and smiling, and Mordred . . .Mordred was not.
Relationships: Cú Chulainn | Lancer (Fate/Prototype)/Fuuma Kotarou | Assassin, Cú Chulainn | Lancer/Heroic Spirit EMIYA | Archer, Frankenstein's Monster | Berserker of Black/Mordred | Saber of Red, Fujimaru Ritsuka/Mash Kyrielight | Shielder, Irisviel von Einzbern/Arturia Pendragon | Saber
Series: Servant Shenanigans [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1854901
Comments: 201
Kudos: 218





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! I'm back in business! Ha ha . . . oh gosh. Anyway, comments and kudos are appreciated, I hope you enjoy (is that the even the correct word for something like this?) this chapter, and have an absolute lovely day!  
> Also, possible triggers, you have been warned.

In the beginning, Mordred’s wish had been simple. Fight the War, get the Grail, have the chance to pull Caliburn from the stone. Obviously, he would do it. He was Mordred Pendragon, heir to the throne of Britain, son of the King of Knights, there was no way he wouldn’t pull the sword from the stone. He would do it, and then they would see, Father, Mother, the rest of the Knights, they would _all_ see. He was Mordred Pendragon and he was fit to be King. And for the longest time, it was what drove him, that wish, burning in his heart, powering him forwards. He would pull the sword, he would become King, a _better_ King than _Father_ ever was.

And he believed it too, until Shishigou Kairi summoned him in a Greater Holy Grail War, and Mordred found out the truth. He _didn’t_ want the chance to pull Caliburn from the stone. He wanted to ease his father's burdens. He _didn’t_ want to be King. He wanted to see Father smile. And Kairi had helped him understand, Kairi, the first person to not treat him as a mad dog or a tool. _Kairi_ , who had lost his daughter and fought to regain her. _Kairi_ , who had become what Mordred truly wanted, a father who believed in him. They had, for a time, filled each other's deepest need. Kairi had gotten to be a father again, and Mordred had gotten somebody who supported him as a father should. They fit together like the pieces of a puzzle, the necromancer and the knight, the grieving father and the abandoned son, and together, they had found out the truth of their wishes.

Kairi wanted his daughter alive and well.

Mordred wanted his Father to smile.

And now, in a different world, in a different time, Father was smiling. Mordred saw it often, when he was near the woman with the white hair and the red eyes, when he was sparring with Diarmuid, when he was talking with the Archer in red, when he was near any of the other Knights that had been summoned to Chaldea. Father was happy, and Mordred . . . was happy too. Or at least he should have been, because this was his wish, wasn’t it? But he _couldn’t_ be happy, because Father wasn’t happy around him. And Mordred wanted to _scream_ , to rage and yell, because every time Father’s smile slid off his face at the sight of the Knight of Rebellion, Mordred was transported back to that room, his news ringing in the air, his father’s indifference. _Shouldn’t_ he have been happy too? _Finally_ , it didn’t matter if Guinevere hadn’t produced a child, Mordred _was_ his _son_ ! He had an _heir_ ! But his _father_ hadn’t been happy, hadn’t even _looked_ at him, and all the delight in Mordred’s heart had turned into hatred so great it choked off all logical thought.

He thought he was better, he thought understanding what he wanted would help change that.

But now, Father was happy and smiling, and Mordred . . .

Mordred was not.

It was a familiar pull of mana, coalescing first in his gut, then spreading out to form the rest of his body, then forming the heavy metal oven that could generously be called his armor. Sometimes, when it was too hot out, Mordred liked to call it a torture device, because that’s what it was. There was light around him, bright and painful and hard to look at, slipping through his visor, burning his eyes, but it was comforting all the same, because it was a sensation other than the blackness of not existing. “I am -” He started as soon as the light faded to a comfortable glow, he didn’t get to finish.

“Mo-san! You came!” It was a squeal of delight, and something, someone, impacted him, attempting to spin him around, unable to lift him up.

Mordred blinked the spots from his eyes. “Gudako?”

“Yes!” The excited, orange haired, Master, bounced back, grinning at him. “I’m so happy to see you!”

Mordred deconstructed his helmet, grinning widely. It was nice to have such an enthusiastic greeting, it made him feel warm, welcomed. It was a pleasant feeling, being wanted. It wasn’t one he was used to. “Obviously, what’s up?”

“So much!” She said, throwing her hands up. “So, so much! A lot has happened since I last saw you, it will take days to tell you all of it.”

“Sounds great,” Mordred glanced around the room, a circular chamber, runes on the floor, a glass window high on the wall that looked out into a viewing room. There was a conspicuous lack of a purple haired Demi-Servant. Mordred couldn’t help but be surprised, in London, she’d been glued to Gudako’s side. “Where’s Mash?”

Gudako shrugged, “Pulling in the people for the next rayshift. Farming, you know,” she made a face, then her eyes brightened. “Hey, want to come? Normally I’d offer a tour, but you’ll want a fight way more.”

She was right, Mordred would love a fight. It had been, after all, why he’d accepted the Throne’s call. For a fight, and the chance to say that he, Mordred Pendragon, had _saved_ the world. “HELL YES!” He shouted, raising Clarent and shaking the sword ecstatically. “Lead on, Gudako!” And Gudako, confronted by his enthusiastic reaction, began to laugh.

There were already people in the rayshift room, conversing in semi-quiet tones, speeches that died as they stood to attention when Mordred and Guadako entered. He recognized two. There was Mash, in Galahad’s armor, with Galahad’s shield. Things had changed for her, obviously, she carried herself with a confidence she hadn’t had before, as she should. She was a much better wielder of that shield then that ass Galahad could have ever hoped to be. Beside her was Martha, the dragonslayer, a semi-decent person Mordred could almost respect, if only she expressed herself more and wasn’t so . . . _french_ . Besides those two, there were two men that were vaguely familiar, both tall, one green haired with an orange scarf, the other blue haired in too tight spandex. Finally, the last one, another tall man, black haired, band-aid on one cheek, was somebody Mordred didn’t recognize at all. That didn’t stop Mordred from walking into the room like he was the toughest bastard there. And why _shouldn’t_ he? He was Mordred Pendragon, heir to the throne of Britain, he could walk with a swagger if he wanted to. Besides, he probably was the toughest person in the room.

Mash turned as the door opened, “Ah, Senpai, you’re he - Mordred?!” 

There was a collective pause as the room sucked in it’s breath. The black haired man looked surprised, maybe a bit worried, the blue haired man looked curious, and the green haired man looked as if he had just gotten slapped in the face with a smelly sock. Martha looked, well, like she was trying to contain whatever emotion that had dared to rear its head. “Yeah,” Mordred said, grinning, tapping Clarent against his shoulder pauldron, “It’s Mordred. Miss me?”

Mash nodded, her purple hair shifting with the movement. “Hai! It will be good to have you on our side again!”

Mordred couldn’t help it, he grinned wider, it was just so damn _nice_ to have people happy to see him. He didn’t think he could ever get used to the feeling. “You should be ecstatic,” he said, smugly. He glanced at Martha’s composed face. “Martha, punch any dragons lately?”

Martha coughed delicately, her eyes flashing before her mask was reinstated. “Only if necessary.”

Mordred laughed, turned to the three, unidentified men. “So who are these -”

“SABER OF RED?!” The green haired man yelped, as if the words had burst out without him meaning them too. He was staring at Mordred, wide eyed, too shocked for someone who was only vaguely familiar. 

Mordred scowled back at him, he _hated_ being interrupted. “It’s Mordred, Carrot Top. Do I know you?”

The blue haired man started to laugh, grabbing the black haired man’s shoulder as he bent over, muttering ‘Carrot Top’ under his breath as if it was the funniest thing he had ever heard. Carrot Top just continued to stare, gesticulating with his hands as he spoke. “We fought in a Greater Holy Grail War! We were on the same team! You betrayed us!”

Mordred shrugged, “You probably deserved it.”

“Achillies,” Gudako said, grinning as she stepped in, “Mordred just got summoned, and you know memories from previous summons take a few days to settle in. Mordred, this is Achillies,” she pointed to Blue Hair, “That’s Cu Chulainn,” then she pointed to Black Hair, “and that is Diarmuid Ua Duibhne.” 

There was an awkward pause, then Mordred shrugged. “So besides Carrot Top over there, have I killed anyone else in a Holy Grail War in this room?”

Cu regained his breath, wiping tears away from his red eyes. “I’ve fought you before, but we didn’t get to finish things.”

Diarmuid glanced at him, amber eyes examining his face. “I’ve heard about you.” It wasn’t unfriendly, but it wasn’t friendly either. Carefully neutral. Mordred didn’t like that too carefully neutral tone, this man had things to say, things he was not going to say, and Mordred _hated_ it when people did that, held in their words, tried not to hurt people's feelings. It was just simpler to say what you mean, regardless of what others thought. Honesty was key, after all. Or some shit along that line.

Gudako clapped her hands sharply, “Wonderful! Introductions are now officially over with. Rayshift positions everyone!”

Mordred had never rayshifted before, and he decided quickly that the sensation of his body dissolving and traveling through time, the world spinning around him, painful but not at the same time, flashes of memories eating at his mind then flying away as if they were never there, was his least favorite part about Chaldea. He stumbled when his feet hit the sand, gasping for breath, shaking, trying hard not to throw up. He felt a hand on his back, patting him, and he knew it had to be Gudako. He shook it off, not roughly, but he didn’t need anyone’s sympathy, not even his Master’s. “Well,” he said, spitting out the sour taste the rayshift had left in his mouth. “Where’s the fight, Gudako?”

Cu Chulainn burst out laughing, shot Mordred a wide, vicious grin, “See? I knew I’d like you if we were ever on the same side. Don’t you think so, Carrot Top?” He smirked at Achillies, his red eyes glinting a challenge.

“I do not look like a carrot!” Achilles burst out, “Tell him, Diarmuid!”

Diarmuid blinked, something like mischief flashing in his eyes, “A knight never lies.”

Mordred snorted and rolled his eyes as Achilles sputtered and Cu burst out laughing again. Diarmuid was one of _those_ types, believing so hard in the ideal of what a knight was supposed to be, in the code of conduct and chivalry and that type of shit. Well, no wonder he was so carefully neutral, Mordred must be exactly what he hated, a knight who played fast and loose with the rules. It was, however, a respectable burn.

Martha clucked, “Now now, boys, save your energy for your enemy, not for each other. You guys fight each other enough in your free time.”

“You could always join us,” Diarmuid said, “I’m certain Achilles won’t mind being replaced.”

Martha’s eyes flashed. “I don’t do fight clubs.”

Mordred snorted again while Gudako rushed, “Of course you don’t, after all, you’re Saint Martha! So holy! Would _never_ do a fight club!” She sent a poignant gaze Diarmuid’s way, and Diarmuid nodded, his lips twisting upwards slightly.

“Uh huh,” Mash said, “Master, our enemies are that way.” 

Mordred had known that too, of course. “Great!” Gudako said, bouncing up and down on her toes, “Well gang, let’s go!”

And then the next few minutes were ordered chaos, with Mash protecting Gudako, Martha beside her, laser beams shooting from her staff, a particularly focused, almost too excited look on her supposedly saint-like face. Mordred had fought with her before, he knew her attacks and her tricks, but she seemed stronger since the last time he stood by her side, more open. That wasn’t saying much, though. The other three, however, were completely different. Cu fought in a way that was vaguely familiar, like a wild beast, his ferocity focused and trained. Achilles ran around, skidding on lightning, appearing and disappearing, his spear piercing his enemies. Diarmuid was graceful compared to them, more restrained, like it was a dance instead of a battle. And Mordred? Mordred fought like there was no tomorrow, Clarent striking, lightning trailing off his armor, jumping from opponent to opponent like a spastic squirell. Their opponents, some humanoid, some not, one gazer, fell like leaves when fall hit. Too easy. Mordred was almost disappointed.

They took a break so Gudako could count up the stuff they’d scavenged so far. Mordred shrugged off his armor completely, because it was bloody hot out and sun plus plate mail meant the unfortunate wearer, i.e. him, got roasted alive. No one was allowed to complain about his undergarments being too revealing until they walked around in the ten ton monstrosity when it was five hundred degrees out. Gudako and Mash were conversing, probably deciding whether to call it quits or continue on. Achilles and Cu and Diarmuid were in deep discussion, and by the occasional glances sent his way, he knew they were talking about him. _Fine_ , that was _fine_. So he walked straight up to Martha and said, “Yo, Saint, I’ve got a question.”

He could see Martha bite down on her immediate answer and instead ask, “Yes, what is it?”

“It’s about Father.” He said, not bothering to keep his voice quiet. All other conversations immediately ceased to exist. Martha’s face shuttered, eyelids fluttering, eyes glancing away and back to the small knight. And that was when Mordred knew. “He’s in Chaldea, isn’t he?” Was that his voice? It seemed so distant.

Martha met his eyes, “Yes, she is. But Mordred, it's more complicated than that. The throne copies individuals at different periods of their life. Mordred, there are currently four Artoria’s in Chaldea, with the possibility of more.”

The world stopped spinning, and Martha’s words (after yes because wasn’t that the _important_ part?) descended into a buzzing hum that he couldn’t understand. Father was in Chaldea. _Father_ was in _Chaldea_. And Mordred was on that battlefield, Father’s words ringing in his ears, the shards of his helmet flying around his face, blood spilling from his lips, staring at Arthur’s face. Arthur’s indifferent face. Shadowed at best. (Didn’t he care? Why didn’t he care? He was _everything_ to Mordred, and Mordred was . . . Mordred was . . .) And it was everything and it was all and for a second (for _eternity_ ) he was on a hill of dead bodies and the sky was shadowed with red clouds. Should he be angry? Should he be happy? He figured that there was a chance, that Father would be there. And Father was, _Father_ was _there_. And Mordred felt . . . numb. Shell shocked. Empty. Drained. Because he was staring into the face of his father who didn’t _care_ ( _Why_ didn’t he care?) as he watched his child _die_ in front of him (Just look, please look, he’d take _anything_ , even hatred was better than . . . this) and that emptiness was crawling, crawling, _crawling_ , attempting to consume _everything_. He wanted to be angry, but he _couldn’t_ , and that roused _something_ , because he was Mordred Pendragon and he could do _anything_ he put his mind to. So if he couldn’t be angry at Father, not yet, not now, he could be absolutely _pissed_ at this emptiness that was trying to claw its way in. Because he _wasn’t_ (he was) a tool like Morgana had tried to make him, he _wasn’t_ (he was) an empty instrument of revenge. (If he hadn’t been Morgana’s tool, perhaps Father would have seen him. Perhaps he would have _cared_.) He was _Mordred fucking Pendragon_ and he _felt_ things, even if that feeling was anger that curled in his chest, warming his cold extremities like _fire_. 

He turned to Gudako, found her watching him with concerned eyes. And that made him angrier. That sympathy made him angrier. He jerked his finger over his shoulder, resummoned the damned armor ( _Morgana’s_ armor, made for him, just as much a weapon as he was) clicked the helmet around his face (designed by _Morgana_ , it hid his identity, looked like the monster _she_ wanted him to be) and said, his voice blank (it should have been _angry_ , he should have been spitting _fire_ , but he wasn’t going to do that to Gudako who believed in him like no one else did) and said, “Something big’s coming. I’m going to kill it.” Then in a burst of red mana, jagged lighting striking the sand with enough heat to melt it, he rocketed forwards.

Mordred was not like Lancelot, he was not skilled with the blade, he wasn’t trained with it. He was not like Gawain, invincible under the sun, strong and noble. He was not like Father, who thought on his feet, taking calculated risks and pulling victories from nothing as if it was easy. No, Mordred was a wild thing, a fire fueled by fighting, and as long as there was a battle he would burn until there was nothing left, blazing brighter then everything around him. So he wasn’t scared when he crested the dune and saw the twelve foot tall monstrosity of white fur and silver scales and blood red eyes. He did not freeze or stop to think when the white chimera turned to him, drool dripping from its mouths, snake head rising, lion head roaring, goat head baying. He did not slow as the light built up in the snake's mouth, nor did he wonder if he was doing the correct thing as he hurled Clarent in the creature’s direction. The sword left his grip, spun blade over hilt, a flash of silver and it sliced through the snake head and continued on to land in the sands, blade caught, hilt towards the sky. He crashed into the creature as it staggered in shock, gauntleted fists cracking into it’s leg because he couldn’t reach its side. It staggered again, screamed, jaws snapped down towards him, he twisted away, feet slipping on the sands, a blast of red lightning, his foot crashed into the side of another of the Chimera’s legs. 

Another scream of fury and pain.

Mordred grinned, all his teeth bared, his eyes gleaming as he channeled everything at this beast.

If he was going to blow up, he was going to blow up productively.

There was a crackle of lightning, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Achilles, racing across the sands. “Need any help?”

As if! “FUCK OFF!!” He roared back, jumping up and slamming his knee into the Chimera’s goat face, used his gauntleted fingers to stab it in the eyes, grabbed a horn to flip himself on top. The creature was screaming, bucking, the snake tail waving wildly, spraying blood into the air. Mordred ignored the blood as it spattered against his armor, started to hiss, because of course the fucking chimera had acid blood. Why wouldn’t it have acid blood? Stupid, stupid, stupid, _stupid_! With a growl of fury, Mordred pummeled the goat head with his fists, over and over, red lightning playing over his arms, sending shocks through the beast with each strike.

Achilies, leaning on his weapon and watching appreciatively, whistled. “Damn. You know, I never got to see you fight in our War. I wish I could have. You’re a beast. Hey, after this rayshift, want to spar for a bit?”

Mordred snarled under his helmet, a grin more monstrous than human, pride replacing the anger in his chest. Because he was, wasn’t he? He was the strongest fucking Saber and that green haired Carrot Top would see it today. Let the word spread about how he had defeated a white chimera by himself! Without his sword! Let _Father_ feast on that!

The chimera’s goat head slumped, one electrocution too many, and Mordred jumped off just in time to avoid the lion head as it bit towards him. For a few seconds, he was dodging paws and claws and then he was trapped between two and the lion head was crashing down, fangs bared, roaring. And Mordred, no longer able to dodge, roared back and caught the chimera’s jaws as they attempted to snap down at him. For a second it was a struggle, five foot tall knight verses twelve foot tall chimera, and then with another roar of absolute _fury_ and a burst of red lightning that lit up the sky, Mordred forced apart the Chimera’s jaws. There was a horribly loud _crack_ and a mewl of pain as the Chimera staggered back, eyes rolling, jaw lagging at an awkward angle. Mordred knew from experience that it’s brain was probably fried by now, but he still darted over to Clarent in a burst of energy, ran back, jumped and buried the sword in the chimera’s second head. The beast fell to the ground with a mighty crash, and Mordred burst out laughing, still full of adrenaline, as he rolled off its head. He deconstructed his helmet, and grinned at Achilles, all teeth and challenge.

And Achilles grinned back. “Nice. So?”

Of _course_ it was. He’d just beat up a chimera with nothing but his _fists_ a little lightning. Of _course_ it was nice. “I’d be up for a bout. Bet you can’t do that.” He jerked a thumb at the slightly steaming monster behind him.

Achilles shrugged, “Never tried before. I’m not in the habit of throwing my weapon away in the middle of battle.” Mordred just smirked at him, because if Achilles couldn’t defeat someone without his weapon, that meant he was _weak_. Achilles must have figured out something in his smirk because he smirked back. “That’s not to say I haven’t, just not with a chimera. Come on, let’s get Gudako, there’s a lot of stuff that we can harvest with this monster.” He nodded towards it, then turned around, setting his spear on his shoulder.

Mordred, after dismissing all his armor, grabbing his sword, and wiping his sticky bangs from his brow, caught up to him. 

Achilles looked down at him, “So . . . I didn’t know you were a girl.”

The world went red, and Mordred moved without thinking, sand spraying as he twisted and brought Clarent up to rest against Achilles throat. “Say _that_ again,” he spat, voice sharp enough to draw blood, “and I won’t be able to stop myself, same side or not.”

Achilles took a small step back, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. “Yessir. Got it. Not mentioning anything.”

“Good.” Mordred drew Clarent back, set it on his shoulder, and then continued walking, the brief flash of rage disappearing. No, right now he was sweaty and hot, and the problem of Father in Chaldea was pushed to the back of his mind. He could deal with that later, for now, he would focus on the fact that he had killed a chimera with his gauntleted hands and a little lightning. He was _awesome_. 

They walked in silence for a few steps, and Mordred could tell that Achilles was trying desperately to think up something to say, and Mordred was about to spit something out as well because the silence was getting to him. Because if it was silent then his mind drifted, and if his mind drifted, it would land on Father, and if it landed on Father then . . .

“Mo-san!” It was Gudako, and she was racing up the sand dune, bag bouncing on her back, with Mash, Martha, Cu, and Diarmuid following. Mordred stopped, and Gudako raced up to him grabbing his hands, looking back at the chimera’s body, then at him, and back at the chimera’s body as Achilles bounced over to the main group and started to excitedly recount the fight. “Will you be alright? With Artoria in Chaldea, will you be alright?” Her eyes were wide and earnest, worried, not pitying.

That damned numbness came back, with a little bit of warmth from Gudako’s worry. He could deal with the worry, in little doses at least, because if Gudako was worried that meant she cared. It was good to have friends. It was good to have people who _cared_. He squeezed her hands, grinned. “I’ll be fine.” He said the words, believed them too. Forget _Father_ . He didn’t need him. He _didn’t_ need him. He had Gudako and Mash, a bout with Achilles, the chance to save the world. He _did not_ need his father.

He _did not._

They rayshifted back soon after, and Mordred was ejected into Chaldea’s cold air with a sigh of relief. Da Vinci, he remembered her mostly as a disembodied voice, met them as they reappeared, a wide grin on her face as she tracked their landing with excited eyes. “So? How well did the bags work?”

Gudako grinned back at her, “The bag of holding trial number one was a success! Bye Martha,” She waved, the saint waved back, murmured a goodbye, then disappeared. “This should help a lot. I know Kotarou wi -” 

A loud clanging sound interrupted her, it filled the room, an endless screaming like some sort of cacophony straight from hell. Flashing lights bounced off the walls, sending shadows skittering off metal surfaces. Mordred jumped, summoning his armor, Clarent appearing in his hands, spinning around, searching for the source. **“All personnel,”** somebody said, **“evacuate Section 1-A. Gudako, if you’re back, you’re needed.”**

Gudako facepalmed. “Of course I am, I can’t be gone for five minutes before this whole place blows up or somebody sets fire to something.” She glanced at Mordred apologetically, “I won’t be able to take you on your tour right now, do you mind?”

“No, Mash ca -”

“We’ll take him!” Achilles yelled.

“STOP INTERRUPTING ME!!”

“We will?” Cu said, blinking.

“Erh,” Gudako glanced at the lights flashing on the walls, then back to the remaining four Servants as Da Vinci grinned and Mash giggled. “Diarmuid, do you think you can . . .?” She trailed off, her words uncertain.

“Of course, Master,” Diarmuid said, bowing his head, “I will make sure that nothing goes horribly wrong.”

“OI! It’s been weeks since we’ve set fire to anything!”

“Yeah! Besides, after we take Mordred on a tour, I’ve got a sparring match! Getting into trouble would just interrupt that!”

Gudako hesitated again, then nodded. “Okay, see you all in a bit! Bye Mordred, have a good time!” Then she turned and rushed out of the room, Mash on her heels, Da Vinci following at a more leisurely pace.

And Mordred was left standing there, with Cu, Achilles, and Diarmuid, feeling very lost. He turned to the three, and stared at the green haired Rider. “Why the hell did you offer to take me on the tour?”

Achilles just smirked, “So I can make sure you don’t run away from our match.” 

Mordred bristled, “HEY! I’m no coward, as you’ll see when I’m _pounding_ your _face_ into the _floor_!”

“Are you su -”

“Oh God,” Diarmuid sighed softly, “There’s another one,” then he clapped his hands together, sharply, interrupting the brewing argument. “Okay you two, before we end up destroying the rayshift area, why don’t we head to the cafeteria first? It’s closest.”

Mordred glanced at him, the mention of the cafeteria piquing his interest. Cafeteria meant food. Mordred liked food. He liked food a lot. Achilles was also distracted, grinning widely, “Are you sure about that, Diar? We go anywhere near the cafeteria, and we’ll lose Cu.”

“OI!” Cu protested, “That’s not true!”

“Yes,” Achilles said, “It is. You’ll waltz in like ‘Oh Emiya~’” He placed his hand over his forehead and pretended to swoon. “‘I have been separated from you for soooo long, I can barely bear it! We must drop everything and make out immediately!’ and Emiya will be like ‘Oh, Cu. You’re back, huh. Well, I guess I could spare some time from my very important job to -’”

Cu went red. “We aren’t that bad!” He yelled, interrupting a horrible impersonation of his voice and what Mordred guessed was an equally horrible approximation of this Emiya’s voice, “tell him, Diar!”

Diarmuid shrugged, and Mordred noticed blankly that his armor had disappeared and he was now wearing a button up shirt and jeans. In fact, everyone’s armor but Mordred’s had disappeared in favor of modern clothing. “Not anymore.” He said, then he glanced at the small Saber, who looked like he’d just been transported into another dimension. “Come on, we better leave now, or we aren’t getting out of this room anytime soon.” He turned to go.

Mordred followed as if in a dream, while behind him Achilles and Cu still bickered like children. Perhaps they really were children. “Are they always like that?”

Diarmuid glanced at him, vague amusement in his eyes. “Always. It’s why I’m their babysitter.”

“OI!”

“HEY!”

Mordred couldn’t help it, he burst out laughing. It seemed his initial impression of Diarmuid was wrong. His burn before hadn’t been a one off. He was somebody who threw shade regularly. Mordred could respect that. “I think,” he said, speeding up to catch up to Diarmuid’s long strides, “That I’d prefer to go to the kitchens rather than the cafeteria.” _Father_ might be in the cafeteria, and Mordred . . . did not want to see him. Not yet. “But I still want food.”

Diarmuid smirked faintly, “We’ll send Cu into the kitchens, he might be able to wrangle something out of Emiya before we lose him.”

“Wrangle something besides kisses, you mean.” Achilles interjected.

Cu groaned, loudly. “You’re just annoyed that you don’t have a super hot boyfriend who makes god level food. Well, no matter how much you tease, I am going to sit comfortably with the fact that I’m getting laid and getting breakfast while you aren’t.”

“OH MY GOD!” Mordred yelled, slapping his hands over his ears because he did _not_ just hear _that_. “There is such a thing as too much information!”

They all burst out laughing this time, and Mordred was hit with such a sudden sense of belonging that it _hurt_ . What the _hell_ ? It hadn’t been like this with most of the Knights of the Round Table. Gareth had been the closest to a friend that he’d ever had, and even then, look what happened. It was odd, to feel as if he was actually part of a group. He wasn’t used to it. But then again, perhaps that was what Chaldea was about, belonging. No, that wasn’t right. Chaldea was about saving the world, not belonging. This sense wouldn’t last, it _never_ did. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth. His laughter petered out.

“Here,” Diarmuid said, even though Mordred could barely remember the walk, “is the cafeteria. We won’t go inside, but it’s good to know where it is. Come on, this way to the kitchens.” He glanced at Mordred as if he suddenly sensed his dour mood. “It’s okay if you get lost a couple of times. There are signs in the halls, so it shouldn’t be too hard to find your way, but we’ve all gotten turned around at least once.”

Mordred bristled. “I won’t get lost.”

Cu popped up between them, “I’m going ahead.” he said, grinning, waggling his eyebrows “It might take me a little bit to wheedle food out of Emiya.” Then in a burst of air, he was a blur rocketing down the hallway.

“I bet I can beat you!” Achilles yelled after him, then in a burst of lightning, and a flutter of his orange scarf, he too disappeared.

And then it was just him and Diarmuid, alone. Mordred decided to tackle the problem head on. “You don’t like me.” He was good at hiding it, better than most people, but Mordred was used to not being liked. He was very good at seeing it, the subtle shift of the eyes, the faint tilt to the mouth and eyebrows, the slight stiffening of the shoulders. All these little things screamed out the truth. 

“No,” Diarmuid said, “I’m reserving judgment.” He glanced down at Mordred, “I’m friends with Artoria. We spar often, besides those two,” he gestured down the hallway, “she’s one of my closest companions.” And he said it like any Knight of the Round would, with that little bit of worship and awe threading through his voice. Of course he said it like that, of course he was friends with _Father_ . Perfect, wonderful Father who didn’t _care_. 

Mordred felt slightly sick. “I killed him.”

“I know you did.” He said, simply, then he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “But, I know what it’s like, almost. Fion Mac Cumhail is here, I don’t expect you to know him, or my story, but it is sufficient to say that he was my lord, and he was also the one who let me die.” His jaw tightened, then it relaxed, forcibly. Mordred shifted Diarmuid from ‘little shit’ closer to ‘trying to be the perfect knight’ in his mind. “I am currently on cordial terms with him, and I hope that you and Artoria can sort out your differences one day.” Mordred snorted in disbelief, but Diarmuid continued as if he hadn’t. “Chaldea is a place for second chances, I would be foolish not to extend that courtesy to you as well.”

“Wow,” Mordred shot back, sarcastically, “I’m _so_ delighted to hear you say that. It’s _always_ been my deepest wish to have one of my _father’s_ friends take _pity_ on me.”

“Yes,” Diarmuid said, blankly, “because you are so very pitiable. Oh look, there’s Achilles, by the sour look on his face, I’m going to guess he lost.”

Achilles glared at them. “I did not lose,” he said, hotly. Then, “How long do you think we should give him?”

“Five minutes,” Diarmuid said promptly, “any longer then that, and we’ll give him up as a lost cause.”

Mordred made a face, “They aren’t that bad, are they?”

Achilles snorted, “We might be exaggerating, but only by a little bit. OH! Great ice breaker question, has the little Knight of Rebellion ever been in love?” He grinned, a bit too widely, eyes gleaming with the promise of gossip.

Diarmuid sighed, and it was the ever suffering sigh of sane people everywhere. “Achilles, you know it’s rude to pry.”

“No, Carrot Top,” Mordred shot at him, “I haven’t. Because A) eww, and B) there are more important things to do in my life. Like pulling Caliburn from the stone and becoming King.” Duh. He thought that would be obvious.

“Damn it,” Achilles made a face, “my gossip hunting has hit a brick wall.” He hesitated, then looked down at Mordred, squinting. “How old are you, anyway?”

“Sixteen.” Mordred said, promptly, because that was how old he looked. He couldn’t really tell them he was nine, could he? “I think,” he added, lamely, “Morgana wasn’t really big on birthdays.”

There was a shocked silence.

“You’re sixteen?” Diarmuid said, disbelieving.

Achilles once again looked like he’d been whacked in the face with a smelly sock. “Sixteen, and you managed to start a rebellion, and take down Camelot? By yourself?”

Mordred shrugged, staring at the wall. “It wasn’t that hard.,” but his normal bravado was gone from his voice. Somehow, it didn’t feel right to talk about it proudly with Father so close. Besides, it really hadn’t been overly hard, Father had lots of enemies, and at that time, his allies had been scattered. “Don’t make such a big deal of it.” The anger rose up, old, bitter. This would go nowhere good, he needed a distraction. He glared at the two of them, trying to guess their age. Late twenties? Early thirties? He didn’t know, but suddenly, he felt very, very young and alone. He _hated_ that, and this time the bubbling anger was better than this _stupid_ , vulnerable feeling. “Besides,” he flapped a hand dismissively, struggling to keep the sudden rage out of his voice, “like I said, I could be older.”

He didn’t get their replies, because Cu stepped out of the kitchen, carrying a basket of something, cheeks tinged with red and a smug grin on his face. “Guess who’s got food!” He sang, waving the basket wildly.

The questions were abandoned, as both Achilles and Diarmuid’s eyes snapped towards the basket. “What is it this time?” Diarmuid asked.

Achilles was less tactful. “Gimme!” He yelled, racing forwards, Cu barely dodging, unable to move fast enough with Achilles hounding him as Diarmuid snatched it out of his hands with deceptive ease 

“Yum,” the black haired Lancer said, “garlic bread sticks.” He passed one to Mordred, looked at the other two, who had paused their impromptu wrestling to stare hungrily at the basket. “Where to next?”

“Sparring grounds.” Achilles said.

“Entertainment center.” Cu spat out at the same time.

“How about a place I can get normal clothes?” Mordred suggested. “I don’t want to be wearing my armor all the time.” Then, he shoved the bread stick in his mouth. Holy shit. This was possibly the best bread stick he’d ever had. He shoved the rest of it into his mouth, then in a burst of red lightning, snatched the basket from Diarmuid’s hands and started to shove the rest into his maw as fast as physically possible. There were twin calls of ‘Hey!’ and only Mordred’s instincts allowed him to dodge the incoming attacks and speed down the hallway, four of those wonderful, God-tier bread sticks shoved into his mouth. He could hear feet pounding after him, and then somebody hit his back and he went flying, basket sailing out of his hands. He caught a glimpse of the damned Carrot Top catching it in midair, sailing over him as Mordred fell, Cu trailing close behind. 

“HAH! Too slow!”

“Give it back!”

“NO!”

“THEY’RE MINE!”

“YOU CAN GET YOUR BOYFRIEND TO MAKE THEM ANYTIME!”

Mordred pushed himself up, growling around his mouthful of bread sticks. Diarmuid ambled up to him, contentedly taking bites from his own bread stick. He must have grabbed it before Mordred snatched the basket. Sneaky git. He raised an eyebrow, swallowed, and said, “You are certainly related to Artoria, you eat just like her,” then louder, he called, “Hey! You two! Get back here! You’re going the wrong way!”

Mordred shoved the rest of his bread sticks fully into his mouth, chewing the too large mouthful with difficulty. What the _hell_ had Diarmuid meant by that? Father wasn’t a foodie. After all, he had eaten the shit Gawain burned up. No possible foodie could have ever hoped to manage a stomach full of Gawain’s horrendous cooking. And to insinuate that Father would scrap around for food, well . . . Hah! As if! That wasn’t something perfect, unfeeling, _uncaring_ Father would ever do. 

Cu and Achilles came back, looking marginally more banged up then they had been previously. Cu currently held possession of the basket, but Achilles had a handful of bread sticks, and both were new owners of black eyes and busted lips. Diarmuid sighed heavily, shaking his head. “I swear, you two are a horrible example to our new guest. What would Gudako think? Seeing you wrestling in the hallways like kindergartners. And you know what will happen to you if Nightingale sees you scrapping. I should tell Emiya. Or Chiron.” The two of them winced, and Diarmuid held out his hand, gesturing with his fingers. Cu, with a sullen look, passed over the basket, and Mordred once again adjusted Diarmuid from ‘perfect knight’ to ‘little shit’. That was practically blackmail, for Pete’s sake. “Now, Mordred,” he said, a trace smugly, “the furniture department is close to the clothing department, so we can hit both. You haven’t seen your room yet, but they come with the basics, bed, bathroom, closet, and desk. Anything else, you get from the furniture department . . .”

They were in the clothing department now, and Diarmuid was talking gently to the woman at the desk while Cu and Achilles looked through the stacks and trash talked each other’s fashion sense. Mordred had dismissed his armor, despite the chill, and was currently balanced on a stool, flipping through one of the catalogs. “How long does it take to make these?”

The woman stopped fluttering her eyelashes at Diarmuid to give Mordred a glance and say, “it depends. Simple things can be done in a day or two, but more complicated things take a while.” She glanced back at Diarmuid, her voice honey sweet, “How long do you plan on staying?”

Diarmuid reached up and touched the band-aid below his eye, as if checking to see that it was still there, “Well, that depends on Mordred. It’s his first day here, so we’re showing him the ropes.”

“You are, huh,” the woman said demurely, glancing at where Cu had pulled out a hideous Hawaiian shirt and was holding it up to his chest while Achilles made over the top faces of disgust and despair. 

“I’m about done,” Mordred proclaimed, because listening to the woman flirt with the Lancer was disgusting. He knew people flirted, and fucked, and he was fine mentioning it in a brief, fleeting way, but prolonged periods of exposure were practically revolting. He was _nine_ for God’s sake! He might look and act like a sixteen year old, but he was still _nine_! There were limits! He hopped off the stacks, “If you can tear yourself away to continue the tour.”

He could swear that Diarmuid rolled his eyes as he bowed slightly to the woman, murmuring his goodbyes. Mordred, as he walked through the isles of miscellaneous clothes, catalog in one hand, let the fingers of the other trail across the fabric. Most of it was cloths, silks and cottons, smooth textures and rough, some even weirder. He stopped, fingers snagging on the sleeve of something, it felt like leather, and, not even sure why he did so, he reached out and unhooked the thing from the rack. It was a leather jacket, wine red in color, with silver buttons and buckles, heavy and imposing. “I’m taking this,” he said, the words spilling out of his mouth before he had completely formulated the thought. He didn’t want to stop them anyway. The jacket was wickedly cool, and something in Mordred craved it. He wasn’t even sure why. He hooked it off the clothes hanger, threw it over his shoulder, and walked out, feeling almost content.

Chadela, Mordred realized, was _huge_. Besides the rayshift area, summoning room, command center, cafeteria, kitchens, furniture department, and clothing department, there was the entertainment center which was composed of multiple rooms, a plethora of labs, the hospital, the library, more workshops then Mordred could figure out a use for, offices out the wazoo, a makeshift theater, lounges, the quarters for both staff and Servants, workout areas,and finally, a set of sparring rooms that could put any place to shame. That wasn’t counting the numerous storage rooms that had to be around to keep a place this large running. 

It was all too easy to see why the tour was necessary.

Currently, Mordred was setting down his new jacket and multitudes of catalogs from both the furniture department and clothing department. He was in one of the sparring rooms, big enough and supposedly sturdy enough to survive two Servants going at it. Cu had disappeared briefly to grab chairs and water bottles, and was now guzzling water while balancing on his chair precariously. Diarmuid was leaning against the wall, sipping from his own bottle with considerably more restraint. Achilles had moved to the middle of the floor, armor back on, weapon in hand, loosening his arms. “Are you ready, Mo-san?” He smirked, eyes flashing.

Mordred picked up his jacket, and started refolding it. For some reason, he wanted this piece of clothing to stay safe. It was a stupid feeling, after all, it was just a piece of leather. “Don’t call me Mo-san, Carrot Top, only Mash and Gudako get to do that.”

“I’M NOT A CARROT!” Achilles yelled, exasperation coloring his voice. Mordred snorted. As if. He had green hair and wore an orange scarf, what did he expect people to call him? 

“Oi, Mordred,” Cu said, leaning forwards on his chair, the piece of furniture tipping dangerously, “Achilles is immortal, so you know what that means.” He grinned, and Mordred's own grin was summoned in reply. “Don’t hold back.”

Diarmuid sighed, “Just try not to destroy the room. We’ve used up all our good will with the builders.”

“Hey,” Achilles argued, his guard dropping the slightest bit, “Stuff only gets torn up when Beowulf joiAAAHHH!!” There was the woosh of air and the crackle of lightning, and Achilles, his surprised yell still echoing off the walls, stumbled back, a line of red dotting across his cheek, surprise written across his face. Mordred laughed wildly, pressed the advantage, swinging Clarent in arching strikes. _Idiot!_ Did he expect Mordred to wait for him to be ready before attacking? _NO!_ Mordred took _every_ advantage he could get! _Every single one_ , rules be damned! Clarent swung down again, and Achilles darted to the side, faster then Mordred could track. “Fine then!” He shouted, “You want to play, let’s play!”

His spear swung, and Mordred switched to holding Clarent with one hand, his now gauntleted fist blocking Achilles strike, lightning playing across the metal, cracks spreading across the surface at the impact. Mordred smirked, then twisted, allowing his gauntlet to disappear, Clarent swishing through the air as he spun. Achilles was no longer there, and Mordred dropped, the wind whistling over his head, one foot shooting out to tangle with Achilles own feet as he struck. The Rider danced back, pulling back his swing, reversed it, stabbing down, Mordred blocked as he surged up, pushing the spear out of his way, slamming the top of his head into Achilles face, his knee digging into his gut. Achilles stumbled back, blinking rapidly, blood gushing from his nose, and Mordred raced in to attack again. He was blocked, one handed, Achilles eyes flashing with lightning. Then, fast, too fast, Achilles’ spear spun in his grip and Mordred was thrown back, feet skidding across the ground, head spinning painfully, Clarent ripped from his hands and clattering against the floor a few feet away. He stumbled, and then Achilles was on him, lightning darting around his feet, spear hemming him in on all sides. He was faster than Mordred, way faster, but Mordred’s instincts gave him the edge he needed to dodge most of the attacks. He couldn’t dodge all of them though, and the cuts he got were shallow, but they stung. Mordred switched his mana usage from strength to speed, red lightning twisting and twining around his limbs as he spun and dodged in his frantic defense. It wasn’t enough, Achilles was still faster than him. Mordred started to growl, low in his throat, his teeth bared in a wild grin. _Fuck this._ He twisted out of the way of another attack, not fast enough, a shallow cut drawing against his stomach. _Fine_ , that was _fine_ , because now the shaft of Achilles’ spear was grasped firmly in both suddenly gauntleted hands. For a second, the world paused, Achilles staring at his weapon in surprise. “You might want to brace yourself,” Mordred spat, his voice eager. “This is going to hurt.”

“Wha-?!” 

It was all Achilles could get out, as Mordred heaved on the spear, using it to yank Achilles off his feet and slam him into the ground. Achilles hit the floor with a loud, painful smack. The floor cracked, he gasped out in pain. Mordred didn’t give him time to recover, lightning crackling across his skin, he jerked the spear again, slamming him against the floor on the opposite side. And again. And again, until finally Achilles let go, slumping in a hole in the floor, wheezing. Mordred took the opportunity to place the weapon against his throat, grinning viciously. “My win.”

“Ow.” Achilles wheezed. “You are so lucky these wounds aren’t permanent.”

He was right, the cut on his cheek from earlier had already healed, and someone as strong as he was was probably on the battlefield often. Mordred couldn’t bring himself to care. He had won, and wasn’t that the important part? Still, he dropped the spear, and grabbed his hand, dragging the Rider up. “You’re fast.”

Achilles raised an eyebrow. “You’re reckless.”

There was the sound of clapping, and the two looked over. Cu was giving an ecstatic applause, grinning wildly, eyes flashing. Diarmuid wasn’t clapping, but his eyes were narrowed, calculating, and Mordred knew that Diarmuid was already thinking up ways to beat him. Let him, Mordred didn’t care, he would still beat the black haired Lancer into a pulp if they fought. “Here,” Diarmuid said, tossing a white box Mordred’s way, “Patch up. We don’t go to the hospital for small injuries.”

As one, the three other Servants shuddered, as if in fear.

Mordred snorted, and looked down at his cuts. They weren’t _that_ bad! They didn’t even hurt anymore! Still, he opened the box and started to smear the weird pastes across his wounds and bandage them up. As he took care of his wounds, Cu spoke. “That was possibly the funniest thing I have ever seen,” he said, voice gleeful. “What were you thinking?”

Mordred paused briefly to shrug, “I needed him to stop moving. So I stopped him from moving.”

Achilles was stretching, his back popping with the movement. “By grabbing my spear and then slamming me into the ground repeatedly? If I wasn’t tougher, you might have broken something.”

Mordred shrugged, setting down the kit. He’d patched up the worse of the wounds, the rest would be fine. “I do whatever I need to do to win.” He said, simply, “Anything goes, I -” he frowned, his brows furrowing. What was that? He remembered something, air shaking the craft he was in. Somebody screaming. His own laughter. The fear on that woman's face before she teleported. What? “I think I crashed a plane into somebody once.” The words fit the memory, and he winced as pain shot through his mind. His passenger, who had he been? What had he looked like? He could barely remember . . . glasses? Sunglasses? A scar?

“Don’t worry about it,” Diarmuid said, softly, and Mordred glared at him. “The memories will come back. Still it must be a strong one, for it to raise its head on your first day here.” Then, to himself he murmured, “Gudako’s going to get another complaint from the cleaning staff thanks to us.”

“Seriously?” Achilles said, surprise coloring his voice, “you crashed a plane into someone? You really will do anything, will you?”

“Yeah,” he said, a bit darkly. “Anything.” A battlefield. A blood red sky. The feel of Rhongomyniad as it _ripped_ through his stomach, up into his lungs, _bursting_ through his back. His vision, fading. Arthur’s face, shadowed. His arm, lifting. Clarent, coming down in one, _final_ strike. 

“If you aren’t going to bandage those smaller wounds up,” Cu burst in, “you’re going to want to put on your armor. It’s not a good idea to walk through the halls with open wounds.”

Mordred frowned, “why not?” 

“Nightingale.” They said, all at once, as if that name carried all the horrors in the world. Their faces, Mordred noticed, had gone pale, too pale to be healthy. Whomever this Nightingale was, they must be terrifying to scare these three.

“So?” Mordred pushed.

“She’s a Berserker Servant,” Diarmuid explained, “and a nurse. Most of the time she’s okay, fairly reasonable. But whenever she sees somebody injured, she goes off the deep end.”

“It’s not just injuries,” Cu said, his voice faint.

“Ohh yeah!” Achilles burst out, starting to snigger, “You and Emiya got the talk from her didn’t you?” His snigger turned into a full out laugh, and he bent over gasping for breath, holding his sides, wheezing with pain.

“It’s not funny!” Cu snapped at him, “It was fucking terrifying!”

“The talk?” Mordred wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“About sexually transmitted diseases and protection.” Diarmuid explained, lips twisting as if he was refraining from smirking. “It dissolved into something less than a talk.”

“We ended up running for our lives,” Cu sounded haunted.

“People,” Achilles said, smirking, “aren’t allowed to make out in the hallways anymore, at least not where she can see them. Romani instated a rule about it.”

“Command Seals were used,” Cu continued.

Mordred raised his hands, “You know what, never mind, I’m putting my armor on now.” Lightning crackled, and then he was encased in that heavy metal monstrosity once again. “Now that I have pounded Achilles’ face into the ground like I said I would, where are the servant quarters? I would like to see my room, figure out what I want to do with it.”

“Of course,” Diarmuid said, snapping back to the present, taking the first aid kit and passing Mordred a water bottle. He turned to the other two, “Are you guys going to spar for a bit? Or are you coming?”

“Well,” Achilles said, shrugging, “We’ve already broken the floor a little bit. If you’re going to do something, do it properly, right?”

Cu stood, stretched, his body armor appearing, his spear falling into his hands. “So yeah, go on. You want to take on the winner?”

Diarmuid sighed heavily, nodded once, then left, and Mordred collected his catalogs and jacket, then followed him to a chorus of goodbyes. He waved his own goodbye, feeling . . . he wasn’t even sure. Content with the sparring? No, that wasn’t it, it was a dissonance he was feeling. For a fleeting second, he had felt like he belonged again, but now that feeling had fled, leaving him feeling separated from the others. Those three were obviously good friends, and Mordred had slipped in for the day and interrupted their hang out or play date or whatnot. And now, he felt separated from their easy companionship. 

He felt alone.

And he _hated_ it.

So he gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, only to loosen them slightly when the catalogs crackled, burying the feeling of that familiar anger that accompanied the loneliness. It was horrible, because he was _hardly_ alone. Diarmuid was there right next to him, speaking softly, his words indistinguishable. Gudako and Mash were somewhere, stopping a catastrophe, and they were his _friends_ . So he was hardly alone, he had _friends_ , two friends, that was _enough_ , that was _more than_ enough, more than he could have ever _hoped_ for. He _didn’t_ need more, so this feeling of being separated was _stupid_ . Absolutely _stupid_.

He was Mordred Pendragon, heir to the throne of Britain, son of King Arthur, the only one to have ever defeated the King of Knights.

He was Mordred Pendragon, and he would pull Caliburn from the stone and prove he could become King.

He was Mordred Pendragon, and he _didn’t_ need friends.

He had _never_ needed friends.

 _Not_ back then, and certainly _not_ now


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Chaos Crew has a talk, Mordred remembers and makes some connections.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! First off, thank you all for comments and kudos, they mean the absolute world too me! Secondly, I hope you enjoy this next chapter and have a wonderful day!
> 
> Possible trigger warnings.

Diarmuid Ua Duibhne wasn’t sure what to think about the newest resident in Chaldea. Objectively, he knew he was supposed to dislike Mordred, for what he had done to Artoria, but for some reason, he couldn’t. Perhaps it was because Artoria had never mentioned the other Saber. She hadn’t told him anything, even though Diarmuid had told her everything about Fionn, about his own death. But it was different with Artoria, she didn’t bring up the past, the good times or the bad, just used her experiences to push her forwards. So she didn’t speak about her son, which meant the only things Diarmuid knew about Mordred Pendragon was what the Throne had deemed necessary, and what he had managed to learn today.

It was horrible, when he thought about it. Mordred was not only Artoria’s killer, but her son. He not only looked almost exactly like her, but he ate like her, and some of his mannerisms were the same. The blank look on his face when he didn’t want to speak, the sadness in his eyes when he was quiet. Heck, he even used his mana in ways that were similar to hers, to make his armor, to strengthen his strikes, to make himself faster. He was like her but not, and Artoria should have mentioned him at least once. At least once.

But she hadn’t.

So why?

He tried to figure that out, as he left Mordred staring at his room, waving goodbye to the small Saber. It wasn’t as if Mordred was the worst person in the world. He was brash, reckless, and, if his blow up on the farming run was any indication, had some anger issues he needed to work through, but he was hardly a bad person. He didn’t threaten their lives or look down at Gudako, or complain about the fact that Chaldea was constantly in one state of crisis or another, whether singularity related or Servant related. He had bickered and he had laughed and he fought with his heart, nothing of which he had expected from Artoria’s killer.

He wasn’t a monster.

He was just a boy.

A sixteen year old boy who didn’t even know if he was sixteen, whose mother apparently didn’t care about him enough to keep track and whose father had killed him even if she had a good reason too. He was a kid. A kid. And Diarmuid wasn’t sure what to feel about that fact.

He liked Mordred, or at least the glimpse he had caught today. The boy was interesting, and Diarmuid desperately wanted to fight him, even if he wasn’t as vocal about it as Cu or Achilles would be. He could already tell that fighting Mordred would be different then fighting Artoria, their skills differed wildly, Mordred’s reckless attacks versus Artoria’s calculated strikes. Artoria . . . what would she think?

He didn’t know, and that scared him.

Artoria had been there for him when Fionn had been summoned, she’d been there, a stalwart presence at his side, her cold, disapproving stare on Fionn’s tall, golden haired form. And he had been there for her, when Irisviel had been summoned, not her Irisviel but an Irisviel from another world. He’d been by her side during Camelot, been there when Salter and Lilly and The Lion King had been summoned. She’d been there for him, in America, when he saw himself following Fionn around like a dog looking for scraps. Heck, by this point, he was practically a member of the Round Table himself, even though, after all Fionn had done, he would not revoke his claim as a Knight of Fionna.

And he still didn’t know how she would react to the fact that Mordred was in Chaldea.

And it felt so wrong, because shouldn’t he know? They were friends, brother and sister in arms, tried and true through countless battles. He should know how she would react to this, but he didn’t, and that was mind boggling, because shouldn’t he? Shouldn’t he?

With a sigh, he silenced his running thoughts and entered the sparring room, where Achilles and Cu clashed like two violent, powerful thunderstorms. Cu would win, he could already tell that. Achilles had taken a beating from Mordred, and Cu’s strikes wouldn’t heal as quickly as his other injuries. But still, it was always a good idea to give Achilles the benefit of doubt, that man had a sneaky way snatching victory from nothing, and the only way he hadn’t managed to do that with Mordred was because none of them had expected the Saber to grab his weapon and act like Hulk with Loki from the Avengers movie Gudako had made them all watch. 

The floor looked like the aftermath from that movie too.

He glanced at it, and winced. It actually looked worse, Achilles and Cu’s spar had drawn large gouges into the flooring, with pieces flying up with every strike. The cleaning staff were going to pitch a fit. He was going to have to make another apology. At least when he and Artoria sparred, they didn’t try their darndest to wreck the sparring rooms.

There was a gasp of pain, and Achilles stumbled, then face planted onto the floor, Cu’s spear touching the base of his neck. The Lancer was panting, ginning viciously. Achilles whined, something that was almost pathetic, “Damn it, my nose had just healed too.”

“Don’t worry,” Diarmuid said, “it improves your looks.” He continued right over Achilles exclaimed protests, “Cu, I assume you told Emiya about Mordred.”

Cu glanced at him, surprise flashing across his features as he allowed Achilles to peel himself off the floor. “Yeah, I did.”

“What did he say?”

Cu blinked, “Nothing, really, just sighed heavily. You know the sigh.” Diarmuid didn’t, even though Cu swore up and down Emiya had different sighs, Diarmuid could never tell them apart. “He doesn’t like Mordred, but he no longer hates him either. He understands a bit of what he’s been through. Why?”

Achilles rubbed his face, then gingerly fingered his nose. “You want to invite him to join the Chaos Crew, don’t you?”

That hadn’t been what he’d been leading up to, but it wasn’t a half bad idea. “Really, Achilles, just because Gudako calls us that, doesn’t mean that's the name of our group.” Chaos Crew, sheesh, he had a reputation to maintain, which was one of perfect knighthood even if he snarked and threw shade at his friends. Honestly, how could one be the perfect knight when his group was regularly called the Chaos Crew? “But that isn’t a bad idea, for once. He did seem to fit in well today.”

“If we do this,” Cu said, spinning Gae Bolg between his fingers, “We’re going to be playing a dangerous game. Emiya and Artoria are close, Emiya’s my boyfriend, and you’re one of Artoria’s closest friends. Let’s face it, we’re connected to the small King, and you saw how Mordred reacted to Martha saying that she's in Chaldea.” 

There was a moment of silence.

“Well, I think we should invite him anyway.” Achilles said, “Whether as an honorary member like Beowulf or as a real, more permanent member, that will be up to him. He knows we have connections to Artoria, so we should leave it as his choice, right?” He was hedging on that last bit, they all knew it.

“You just want to fight him again,” Diarmuid pointed out.

“And you don’t?” Achilles asked.

He had a point. “Very well, we’ll offer the invitation. Shall we do it at breakfast?”

The other two looked at each other, then back at Diarmuid. “That works,” Cu said, then he pointed his spear at Diarmuid, smirking. “Now, are you going to keep talking? Or am I going to have to drag you over here?”

Diarmuid pushed off the wall, summoning his armor and his spears, wrapped in their fabric for his friends' protection. “Cu,” he said, as Achilles cleared the area, “I’m not the one whose going to end up being dragged out of here.” And then he lunged in a flash of green and red and yellow, fainting with Gae Buidhe and striking with Gae Dearg. The fight was on, and everything else fell away, including the conundrum of Mordred’s arrival in Chaldea.

_ The room still smells faintly of acidic blood and poison. Smoke still rises from the recently demolished throne. Assassin of Red had teleported too late, and despite her strength in her Gardens, Mordred had taken her life, it would just take time for her to fade away. And now, with the deed done, Mordred walks out of the smoke, back in his civis, Clarent on his shoulders. There is his Master,  _ _ Shishigou Kairi, sitting against some rubble, black jacket and orange shirt soaked red, blood running from underneath his glasses, smoking one of his pungent cigarettes.  _

_ “Master,” Mordred says, smirking, and Kairi makes a startled noise, looking up from his cigarette towards the small Saber. _

_ “What about Assassin?” Kairi says, and his voice is rough, filled with pain and . . . exhaustion? It is hard to tell.  _

_ Mordred looks back at the demolished throne, still smirking. “I destroyed her Spiritual Core. She’s gonna die pretty soon.” Pride infuses his voice. He’s done it. He’s taken down the Empress who’d reminded him so much of Morgana. Perhaps that is why he feels lighter, a little bit better about himself. _

_ “I see,” Kairi is smiling, a pained thing, but full of the same pride that burns in Mordred’s chest. “We were really close.” And there’s something in his voice that doesn’t make sense. Something sad. _

_ “Huh?” Mordred walks forwards a bit, letting Clarent disappear, turning so he can see Kairi clearly. “Master, what are y -” Oh. That’s all he can think. Oh. Because for the first time he sees the truth, the extent of the damage dealt by Kairi’s rush to his side. Kairi is dying. And Mordred doesn’t want to ruin this moment with curses and cries, even though he feels like screaming, even though he feels like raging. He should have tried harder, he should have . . . no. He had done his best. He had taken down Assassin. They had taken down Assassin. “You won’t make it.” And the words sound too soft in his mouth. His eyes are burning. Why are they burning? Are these . . . tears? He will not cry, he will not! He doesn’t want to ruin their victory with something as weak as tears. _

_ “Apparently,” and the single word is filled with implications. They are done. They will not move on. No Holy Grail. No wishes fulfilled. This was it. “But there’s still hope for you,” and Mordred can’t believe the words he is uttering now, “If you make a contract with one of the Yggdmillennia siblings . . .” _

_ Mordred sits down beside him, not looking, swallowing this feeling, pushing it down. Kairi makes a surprised noise and looks at him, but Mordred is speaking now, voice soft as well. He sounds, for the first time, mature, every one of the years he looks. “This is as far as I go.” _

_ Kairi looks away, and there’s a trace of laughter in his voice, and Mordred can’t tell whether that laughter is hysterical or bitter. Perhaps it’s both. “What’s with that change of mind?” _

_ And Mordred, heart breaking, allows a bit of laughter in his own voice as well. “You came to die, it's just fair.” He looks up, and though his eyes are burning there’s a smile on his face, “So, was I a good Servant?”  _

_ “Yeah,” and Mordred can hear the smile in Kairi’s voice as well, “we made it this far because you were my Servant.” He takes a puff from his cigarette, breaths out a lungful of smoke. “I was lying to myself.” And his words are soft, “I wasn’t looking for a successor. I just wanted to bring back my daughter.” _

_ “Really?” and Mordred’s voice is still soft, contemplative, and it’s not something he’s ever heard coming from his own mouth before. “I’m the same. I also couldn’t see it, and now I finally understand.” He picks up a piece of rubble, looks at it, but he’s not seeing it, he’s seeing Caliburn and Merlin and Father, the golden sunlight spilling onto the scene as the blade is held aloft. “Father didn’t wish for gems that shined like the stars. He became King for the sake of those stones on the roadside. That’s why I can’t see that dream about the Sword of Selection. I don’t need it anymore . . .” and he doesn’t, because he has grown beyond it. _

_ “Really?” Kairi asks, and his voice has a trace of pride in it, “You would’ve been a great King.” He takes another puff of his cigarette, and looks at Mordred. And Mordred is stuck staring, his heart bursting, because no one has ever said that to him before. And he knows now what Kairi is to him, he knows too late. Kairi is no Master, he is what Arthur should have been, a father figure, a teacher. “What is it, you want some?” He holds out the cigarette, and Mordred almost laughs, because doesn’t he realize it, does he? They fit in each other's blank spots, and in the little time they’ve had, they have changed each other for the better. _

_ But all he can do is lean forwards and say, “Well, I’ve never tried smoking.” _

_ “Whatever,” he thrusts the packet at Mordred, “take the last one.” _

_ Mordred chuckles and grabs it, “Sorry,” he’s not sure why he says it. Sorry for failing. Sorry for letting him get hurt. Sorry for taking the last of his stupidly expensive cigarettes. He lights it, takes a breath, and bursts out coughing, twisting to glare at Kairi. “Master. What the hell is this?” His voice is choked and strangled, and his eyes burn and he can blame it on the cigarette and not the tears although there are tears pricking at the corner of his eyes now.  _

_ “Hey, Saber,” and Kairi’s voice is hoarse and weak, and at Mordred’s small sound of surprise, he smiles. “Was it fun?” _

_ And Mordred’s shoulders slump, and the burning in his eyes is worse, but he is smiling, it’s the most he can do. “It was really fun, Master.” But Kairi is already dead, his hand dropping, his cigarette hitting the floor and rolling. Mordred, for a second, stares at his dead body, then he turns away, the burning in his eyes even worse, any moment the tears will spill over his cheeks and splash onto his jacket. But it doesn’t matter because he is disappearing, and the cigarette drops from his fingers and rolls to touch Kairi’s.  _

_ ‘I bet Father’s last moments were also . . .’ _

_ He doesn’t get to finish the thought. _

Mordred  _ woke _ , gasping for breath, clawing at his throat, tears pricking at his eyes. He could still taste the cigarette smoke, that disgusting taste, coating his tongue. He had  _ never  _ gotten to ask Kairi why he smoked such horrible things. He had  _ never  _ gotten to ask about his daughter. He had  _ never  _ gotten to ask whether or not Kairi saw Mordred as his son. And Mordred wanted to scream and cry, and the tears were burning, burning,  _ burning _ , but they wouldn’t spill because Mordred  _ would not _ let them. And  _ finally  _ he was able to wrestle a long, painful breath, then another, then another, and when he could breathe without choking, he pushed himself up and stared at his room.  _ His  _ room. His room, because he was in Chaldea and Kairi was  _ dead _ . 

Mordred bit the inside of his cheek, and then grabbed the catalogs off the side table beside his bed and began to flip through them, staring blankly, searching for something to distract him from the dream and the new memories that were swirling in his mind. He would do the clothing first, and he found himself instinctively looking for something similar to what he had worn in Trifas. He swallowed, set the catalog down, then picked it up again. He was  _ Mordred Pendragon  _ and he  _ didn’t  _ run from things, not even things as intangible as  _ this _ . So he looked through the catalog, each flip of the page resurfacing another memory from that War, a cat, a graveyard, Kairi calling him king, a car, a plane, a restaurant. And with each memory, Mordred’s grief settled slightly, until it was no longer strangling, just a heavy ball in his chest.

Had Kairi known what they had become to each other? Or had he been oblivious as Mordred had been until the last moment? Whatever, it didn’t matter now, it  _ didn’t _ .

It did.

Mordred growled, low and long, and set the clothing catalog aside to pick up the furniture one. When he felt settled, better, he set that aside as well and stared at the walls. What would he do today? It was his first, official, full day in Chaldea. He wanted to go to breakfast, he wanted to go to the Cafeteria and eat, but  _ Father  _ might be there, and with these revelations swirling in his mind, Mordred wasn’t sure how he would react to that. So no, no Cafeteria, not yet. He would go to the clothing and furniture departments first, turn in his choices, and then he might wander around, do a bit of sightseeing. He would get food later, when it was less likely that Father would be there. 

He threw himself off the bed, then bounded to the closet, curiosity peaking up. Maybe, and there was a low chance of this, there would be something in the closet that he could wear. He didn’t want to wear his armor, he wanted something . . . normal. So he yanked open the doors, expecting to see nothing, only to see that there was something there. Basic clothes, probably for Servants who were just summoned. Servants like him. His grin was returning to his face now, and Mordred grabbed a pair of pants and a shirt that looked like it would fit, then threw them on. They fit, roughly, but his chest felt  _ wrong  _ without the tight constriction of a binder, so Mordred grabbed his jacket from where he had set it on the desk last night, and zipped it and did up all the buckles. It was a bit too small, but the smug fit eased him somewhat. Besides, it didn’t matter if it was too small, as soon as he got his proper clothes, he was wearing it open anyway.

He now knew why he had craved this jacket so desperately.

It was the color of his jacket from Trifas, but it looked more like Kairi’s then his own, and just seeing it, just wearing it, made him feel slighter better about everything. 

With his grin still plastered onto his face, Mordred grabbed his catalogs and headed out.

The furniture department was easy, the clothing department less so. The clerk, a different one from yesterday, was being deliberately obtuse, and Mordred was about to  _ crack  _ and grab Clarent and  _ drive  _ the sword through this idiotic man’s empty  _ skull _ . “For the last time,” he growled, with considerable restraint, “ _ this _ is what I want. Right  _ here _ .” he jabbed at the circled clothing options, “can you manage that, or do I have to  _ pick  _ you up and  _ throw  _ you into the  _ trashcan  _ where you  _ belong _ , and then look for the next person in the chain of command!”

The man’s face paled. “Well - I - look, you would look much better in something like this.” He pointed at something frilly and girly, with lots of lace and ribbons, and Mordred exploded.

“I AM NOT A GIRL YOU ASSHAT!” He yelled, lunging over the counter and grabbing the man by his collar and dragging him down so they were face to face, the man's eyes wide and scared as Mordred’s furious gaze bored into his. “AND I AM NOT WEARING SOMETHING LIKE THAT!” He was about to continue, but somebody interrupted him.

“Don’t waste your time with him, Mordred, was it? He won’t listen.” It was a french voice, and Mordred turned to see a blond, blue eyed woman in a white summer dress with blue and pink piping walking his way. “Ask for Melissa,” the Servant said, “she’s easier to deal with.”

Mordred turned back to the man, and growled, eyes flashing, “You heard her, you go get Melissa, or I  _ swear  _ you will take a Clarent Blood Arthur to the  _ face _ .” He dropped the man, and he stumbled back. “Now scram.” He did so, and Mordred turned to the woman. “Who are you and how the  _ hell  _ did you know who I am?”

The woman held out one hand, “I am Chevalier d’Eon, and the whole place is a titter with the news of a new arrival.”

Mordred stared at the hand, then shook it. She had helped him out after all, even if he didn’t need it. “I would have scared the man into listening.” It  _ would  _ have  _ worked _ , the man had been about to crack. He could imagine Kairi standing next to him, tall and imposing in his black leather jacket, his lips twisting slightly as he tried not to laugh. He bet  _ Kairi  _ wouldn’t have had such trouble with the idiot.

Chevalier chuckled, “In my experience, it is never wise to anger the clothing department. They have sneaky ways of getting revenge. Besides people like him,” and here her voice darkened, “are not worth wasting your time on.”

“He pisses you off too?”

Chevalier smiled, “He pisses off everyone. May I see what you picked?” After a second’s debate, Mordred passed over the catalog, and Chevalier flipped through the pages, humming. “Your choices look fine, besides, you should wear what you want, not what others think you should wear.”

Mordred jerked a thumb back at where the man had stood moments before. “Has he tried to pull that trick on you too?” He couldn’t believe it, not really, Chevalier looked the type to be at home in the type of concoction he’d been trying to shove onto Mordred.

“Yes,” Chevalier said, “he is extremely narrow minded.” And there was a slight bitterness to her voice that Mordred understood all too well. 

He looked at her, the delicate features, the slim build, and although the dress suggested a woman, there was something about her that made Mordred look closer, as if there was something beneath the surface. “You’re -”

She snapped the catalog closed, and handed it back to him. “I’m me.” And Mordred understood, that trace of bitterness, better hidden in her voice than it would have been in his own. He hated it when people called him a girl, and he hated it when people tried to make a big deal of the fact that he hated being called a girl. He was Mordred Pendragon, son of King Arthur,  _ himself  _ and  _ nobody  _ else. And he could see in her eyes that she was like him in a way. “It’s more common than you think,” she murmured softly, “Do you know Astolfo?”

Mordred blinked, that name . . . Astolfo, the pink haired Rider of Black, someone who was crazy on the best of days. “Yeah.” The two of them had been in the same War, enemies and then allies. Astolfo hadn’t liked the way Mordred had casually killed their homunculus. Which that homunculus had deserved, after stabbing him in the gut.  _ Besides _ , the homunculus had  _ survived _ .

“Well, there’s them, plus Da VInci, and a few others who are less open about it. You are not alone.”

Mordred snorted harshly, looking away. “I know that.” He paused, then continued, “This better not be an offer to hang out or some shit like that.”

She chuckled. “Only if you wish it to be.” Oh. Mordred fell silent, staring at the racks of clothing, feeling, once again, that odd sensation of  _ belonging _ , of being  _ connected _ , even if that connection was born only through the confusing dynamic of gender and what people preferred being called and how  _ annoying  _ it was to have people try to force their views on others. Chevalier glanced at the direction of the stacks, then smiled. “Go ahead, you’ll need a few extra pairs of clothes, and there should be something you’ll like in there. I know how bad the regulated Chaldea clothes are.”

“I -”

Chevalier waved a hand, “I will deal with Malissa and give her your order. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure she doesn’t change it.” Her voice was light, her lips twisting into a smile. A joke, she was joking, and Mordred couldn’t hold back a snort. “Seriously though,” she said, softer this time, “Don’t let Brad get to you. There are very few like him in Chaldea, and he would be fired already if it wasn’t for the fact that there’s nowhere else for him to go.” And then, even softer, so soft Mordred could barely hear it, “And isn’t that a shame.”

This time, Mordred couldn’t contain his laughter.

Mordred stepped out of the clothing department, clothes ordered, and wearing a new outfit. Ripped jeans, heavy steel capped combat boots, a binder, and his leather jacket. He felt  _ real _ , in a way the battle and his bout yesterday hadn’t been able to make him feel. Beside him Chevalier, stepped out with a smile and a wave, holding a box in her hands. She looked at him, her smile gentle. “Remember, Mordred, if you ever want to talk, there are people for you to talk to.”

“Got that,” Mordred snorted, “Now scram. I need to eat.”

With a laugh and a wave, Chevalier disappeared, and Mordred headed out in the vague direction of the Cafeteria, his fists shoved into the pockets of his jacket. People stared at him as he walked, Chaldea staff, robots, other Servants, Mordred didn’t care. No, he soaked in the attention, smirking at people, grinning viciously at others. It felt like he was walking the streets of Trifas again, and he almost turned to Kairi to make some sort of joke. He stopped himself, swallowing hard, the tears once again prickling his eyes.  _ Stupid  _ tears.  _ Stupid  _ grief. Kairi may not have survived, they may not have won, but he had still died a good death. They both had, it would be  _ wrong  _ to cry over something like that.

He bit the inside of his cheek hard, and this time, he didn’t smirk at people or grin at them, he just ignored their stares and their whispers, shoving his fists deeper into his pockets and slumping slightly.  _ Goddamnit _ . This was  _ stupid _ . He was being  _ stupid _ . He shouldn’t be grieving. He  _ shouldn’t _ .

“OI! There you are!” Mordred jerked his gaze up, to see Achilles and Cu heading his way, with Diarmuid trailing behind at a more leisurely pace. His lip curled up, he couldn’t help it. What the  _ hell  _ were they wearing? Cu’s shirt was some God  _ awful  _ amalgamation of Hawaiian shirts that should have been burned at the stake, while Achilles’ tank top with the too big logo looked like it had been spattered with  _ acid _ . He wasn’t even sure it could count as a tank top, it looked like it might have had sleeves originally. Diarmuid, at least, was wearing something that wasn’t falling apart, a button up shirt, slacks, glasses, a band-aid once again underneath one of his eyes. “We were looking for you at breakfast.” Cu skidded up next to him, jaw gaping. “What are you wearing?”

Mordred snorted, “A fashionable outfit, unlike what you’re wearing.”

“Oh,” Achilles snarked, “so your taste runs towards expensive delinquent. Should have known.”

“Better than colorblind and walking advertisement,” Diarmuid muttered softly, and the Saber and Lancer shared a look of mutual pain as Cu and Achilles protested loudly. “You weren’t at breakfast.”

Mordred  _ wanted  _ to snarl and ask why he cared, but he shrugged instead, smothering whatever was trying to come up and  _ choke  _ him. “I was turning in my choices, and ran into some trouble. Nothing I couldn’t handle. Met somebody interesting, you know, newbie shit. I was about to go over, there is still food left, right?” Please let that be right. He was  _ starving _ .

“Last I checked,” Cu said, shrugging, “but we better head over quickly before the remains are snatched.”

“Hey,” Achilles burst out, eyes sparkling, “let’s race there!” Then, without giving them time to reply, he was gone in a crackle of lightning. Mordred, with a snarl and a burst of his own red lightning, raced after him, Cu right on his tail. 

Diarmuid sighed, heavily, before following.

Mordred and Cu burst through the cafeteria doors at the same time, Achilles a few seconds before them. The Rider skidded to a halt, then started a victory dance. Mordred bent over and grabbed his knees, gasping for breath, while Cu groaned despairingly. “That’s right! Who’s the fastest? I’m the fastest!” 

“Of course you are,” Diarmuid said dryly, and Mordred looked up just in time to see Achilles freeze and turn around to stare slack jawed at the black haired Lancer. Diarmuid smirked faintly, eyes glittering with barely concealed amusement. “If you’d been paying attention, you would have noticed that I was here before you all.”

“How?!” Achilles burst out.

The few people in the cafeteria who had jerked their heads over at the commotion shook their heads and returned to their meals, and Mordred guessed that this was probably a common occurrence. “I’m going to assume you took a shortcut.” Mordred said, straightening. 

Diarmuid raised an eyebrow. “You’re smarter than you look.”

“That’s not hard to do,” Cu gasped out.

Mordred kicked him, “Don’t you  _ dare  _ insult Father like that.” 

Achilles burst into laughter while Diarmuid started to chuckle. Cu stared at him, whipped his head around to the other too, then back at Mordred, before groaning and slapping his hand over his face. Mordred couldn’t help it, his smirk fell off his face, and he began to laugh as he strode away from the three taller men and towards the bar. The rest of the world fell away as he grabbed a plate and stared at the bounty before him. Bacon, scrambled eggs, other breakfast foods that gleamed perfectly in the light. His stomach growled,  _ loudly _ , and Mordred couldn’t care less as he loaded a plate full of delectable delights. By the time he walked away from the bar, there was a tower on his plate and his fork was held between his teeth. He looked around, then sped as fast as he could with his load towards the nearest empty table. Then,  _ finally _ , it was food time. Eggs, bacon, toast, he wasn’t even sure what half of this stuff was, it didn’t matter, one by one, they disappeared into his gullet. He didn’t stop to breathe, and he  _ might  _ have been using his mana to boost his speed, but it didn’t matter because the food was delicious and soon it was in his stomach.  _ This _ , right here, was  _ life _ .

“By Lugh, Emiya wasn’t kidding, he does eat exactly like Artoria.”

“The King of Knights eats like that?”

“Pay attention to the leaning tower of food sometimes during meals, Achilles, then you’ll see.”

Mordred stiffened slightly at the mention of  _ Father _ , forced himself to relax, then looked up, not even remotely close to being sated. Still, he’d been fed enough to talk. He waved his fork around wildly, “I assume you three wanted to talk to me about something more important than my eating habits. So spill.” Then he returned to his food, shoveling more into his mouth. He could see empty spots on his plate. That was  _ unacceptable _ . A plate should only have two states of being, clean or full,  _ not  _ something in between. 

The three looked at each other, and then Diarmuid said, softly. “We would like to extend an offer for you to join our group.”

Achilles elbowed him sharply, “By Zues, you say it like that and he’ll run away.” He grinned at Mordred, eyes gleaming excitedly. “Look, we enjoyed hanging out yesterday, and if you want too, we’ll hang out again.”

Mordred froze, fork halfway to his mouth. He couldn’t be hearing this. He  _ couldn’t  _ be. Not twice in one  _ day _ . Not twice in one  _ hour _ ! “You want to hang out.”

“Yep.” 

“ _ Why? _ ” He couldn’t believe it, it  _ didn’t  _ make sense. People didn’t want to hang out with him. He was  _ too  _ rude,  _ too  _ angry,  _ too  _ bloodthirsty.  _ Too  _ much of a knight for Morgana, not  _ enough  _ of a knight for the Round Table. Gudako was the exception, and that was because she was  _ weird _ . She talked to heroes and anti-heroes and villains as if she actually  _ cared  _ about their points of view for heaven’s sake! So yeah, Gudako talked to him, but these three . . . 

“Because,” Cu said, his eyes glinting, grinning just as widely as Achilles was, “You’re an impulsive, bloodthirsty, reckless idiot with a penchant for trouble just like the rest of us.”

“Except for Diarmuid.” Achilles interjected.

“Except for Diarmuid,” Cu conceded, “who might be slightly less bloodthirsty, and is the proud owner of the single brain cell in our group. But the point is, in Chaldea, you get to meet people from different cultures and different time periods, and you get to find out that a lot of them are a lot like you. You get to make friends with people you never dreamed you would be friends with. Which is why we’re extending this offer to you.”

Slowly, Mordred set the fork back down on his half-empty plate. “You really want me to be part of your group?” He was dreaming, or delusional. This wasn’t happening, it  _ wasn’t _ .

Diarmuid met his eyes, “Yes, we do. But only if you want to.”

For a second, for the briefest of seconds, he was tempted to say no. He was Mordred Pendragon, the homunculus, the weapon, the boy who had killed his father and taken down Camelot.  _ Friends  _ were not something that was meant for him. Then he thought of Kairi, of his support, of his belief in Mordred’s abilities.  _ “You would’ve been a great king.”  _ Wasn’t that what Kairi said? And the  _ thing  _ about kings was that they  _ needed  _ people who understood them, or else it would be Father all over again. So he smirked, wide and violent, before his smirk burst into a delighted grin. “You know what? Hell  _ fucking  _ yeah I do.”

Diarmuid smiled, while Achilles jumped out of his seat and started to whoop with delight and Cu jumped over to pat Mordred on the back roughly, grinning so wide it looked like his face would split. “Well then, Mordred,” Diarmuid said, “welcome to,” he winced slightly with the next words even as Mordred burst into disbelieving laughter, “the Chaos Crew.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chaos Crew shenanigans commence, servants with bad luck stats v card games, a Father is sighted, and conversations are held.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thank you all for your comments and kudos! They truly bring light to my day. Anyway, this chapter is a bit of a doozy, so I hope you all enjoy it, and I hope you all have an absolutely wonderful day!
> 
> As always: Potential triggers. There is a description of a panic attack from "Mordred froze, Diarmuid's snappy reply fading into the background" to "Good, we were worried about you." You have been warned.

“So, what do you all do for fun?” Mordred asked as they exited the cafeteria, not long after he had managed to clean out every scrap of food that had been left from the original breakfast rush.

“Well,” Achilles started, “Mostly we spar . . .”

“Or think of great ideas . . .” Cu interjected.

Diarmuid sighed heavily, “By that he means stupid ideas that I try to dissuade them from doing, but end up being pulled into anyway.”

“Hey,” Achilles protested, “karaoke night was your idea.”

Diarmuid blinked. “Was it? If I’m remembering correctly, I simply mentioned it once. You’re the one who brought it up with Gudako.”

Cu bent so he could pretend to whisper in Mordred’s ear, though he didn’t lower his voice at all. “Diarmuid rarely does anything directly, he mostly suggests fun things to do and then stands back to watch the chaos unfold. It’s the fae in him.”

“I do not,” Diarmuid said, “Otherwise, I wouldn’t stop some of your insane ideas.”

“Really,” Cu said dryly, straightening, “Emiya told me about the time you managed to steal all the cream in Chaldea’s kitchens.” He grinned at Mordred, “they were apparently dry until they managed to get another batch from a rayshift.”

“ _ Seriously? _ ” Mordred couldn’t believe it. That seemed a little bit extreme, even if Cu wasn’t joking about Diarmuid being part fae.

“That was never proven to be me,” Diarmuid said, his face blank, and Mordred started to laugh, because he wasn’t denying it.

“Must be hard,” he managed between chuckles, “to balance being a perfect knight and being a little shit all the time.”

Diarmuid opened his mouth to protest, but he didn’t get the chance. “There was also that time when he rearranged all of Artoria’s furniture.” Achilles mused, as if to himself, but the look in his eyes made it abundantly clear that he was poking fun at the black haired Lancer.

Mordred stopped walking, his jaw dropping, disbelief flashing across his face. “You rearranged  _ Father’s  _ furniture? I thought you said you two were friends!”

“We are,” Diarmuid said, “but Artoria can be very emotionally constipated at times, and sometimes extreme measures need to be taken.”

“And you aren’t emotionally constipated?” Cu shot at him, still grinning.

“Point. I’m doing better, and so is she, but she’s still being stubborn.” The words had the slightest trace of annoyance in them.

“Why did you do it?” Mordred asked, speeding up again.  _ Stupid  _ tall people with their  _ stupid  _ long legs. He wasn’t sure how to feel about the conversation shifting to being about Father, he’d expected the rage like yesterday, but, no, it was still there, just manageable, and a bit sad. Sorrowful. This was Kairi’s influence, their time together had tempered his hatred towards Father, because Kairi had helped him realize that he hadn’t hated Father nearly as much as he thought he had. He still wasn’t sure how he would react to  _ seeing  _ him though. Something told him it wouldn’t be pleasant.

Diarmuid shrugged. “She wasn’t listening to me. So I had to make her listen somehow.”

“No, wait, more details please,” Cu burst in, “I haven’t heard this story before.”

Diarmuid sighed, and although Mordred couldn’t see his face, he bet he was rolling his eyes. “She was being difficult about her crush on Irisviel. You know, ‘No Diarmuid, she’s just a friend. Yes, I care about her a lot, and if she ever cried I would kill whoever made her do so, but that doesn’t mean I’m in love.’” He groaned, “It’s been months, and she’s still in denial.” He stopped suddenly. “We should set them up.”

_ “WHAT?!” _

He turned to them, eyes gleaming. “We should set them up on a date.”

_ “NO!” _ Mordred was lost, not angry, but lost. Father, in love with somebody? Not  _ Father _ , not Father who didn’t  _ care _ . The thought of somebody getting Father’s attention, of Father  _ caring  _ for someone when he didn’t care for  _ Mordred  _ was sickening. He felt like he was going to throw up. But he wanted Father to smile. And if Father truly liked this Irisviel person, then . . .  _ then  _ . . . “No date. Not until I meet her. I have to make sure that she’s good enough for Father.”

All three turned to stare at him, and Mordred watched them realize the topic they’d been on. It was in the way their eyes widened, their brows rose, their mouths tightened. Surprise and readiness, wary for his anger. “You’re not blowing up,” Achilles noted. The ‘like yesterday’ went unsaid.

Mordred looked away, his hands balling up into fists. “I don’t hate him.”

“What?” Three voices, the same disbelieving tone.

“I SAID I DON’T HATE HIM!” Mordred jerked his gaze to theirs, stared angrily. He could feel the tears pricking his eyes, but he shoved them down.  _ Stupid  _ tears. “I may still be angry at him, but I don’t hate him.”

“You don’t?” Cu said.

Mordred shoved his fists into his pockets, started stomping forwards, past the goon squad. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I thought y-”

“I SAID I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT!”

Silence in the hall, and Mordred took a deep breath, fists shaking, before slowing down and then finally stopping, turning to stare at them. His breath wasn’t coming  _ right _ , for a second it felt like he was breathing through  _ water _ , and for a second the Chaldean corridor looked like a hill of  _ swords _ . Mordred focused on the three, biting the inside of his cheek, feeling the pain bloom up there. It grounded him, stopped him from slipping further into the memory of  _ Father’s  _ shadowed face, of the  _ blood  _ red sky, of the  _ pain _ , mental and physical as it all unraveled.

For a while, they all stood staring at each other, then finally, Cu shrugged. “So that’s the stuff that we get up to in our spare time. We normally hang out from right after breakfast to lunch. After that, we split ways for the day.”

Mordred took a deep breath, then forced his fists to unclench. “Come on, you don’t expect me to believe that the only things you do are fight and follow through with horrible ideas.”

Achilles threw up his hands in mock surrender. “You got us!”

Diarmuid chuckled softly, and the remaining tension was shattered. “You’re right, we don’t. We go on and off rotation, sometimes we have others join our group, most often Beowulf. Achilles does a bit of gossip hunting. Sometimes we play card games or video games, and sometimes we don’t meet up at all, but that tends to be rare.” He tilted his head, a faint, challenging smirk passing over his features. “Today, we figured we’d teach you some of Gudako’s favorite card games.”   
Mordred blinked. “Why?”

Achilles shrugged, “First week you arrive, Gudako makes sure to hang out with you a little bit every day. A get to know you thing. She does this over cards games, and board games, and video games. Trust me, you need to get a little practice under your belt before you are brought to the slaughter.”

“And,” this time Diarmuid’s eyes gleamed, “we can ask Irisviel to join us. So you two can meet, of course.”

Cu raised an eyebrow. “Are we seriously going to do this?”

Mordred crossed his arms and glared at them. “Only if I like her. She has to get my vote of approval.”

Cu flapped a hand, “Of course she does, but still, if we’re going to do this, I bet Emiya would love to help.”

Achilles reared back as if physically struck. “You’re going to get Chaldea’s mother hen in on a plot to get Artoria laid?”

_ “Hey!” _ Mordred snapped, “watch your mouth, that’s my  _ father  _ you’re talking about!”

“No,” Diarmuid mussed, “it’s a good idea. They are close, and in some ways, Artoria’s more open with him than she is with me. If you can bring him in on this plan, then I’d be fine with it. Of course, he would have to agree to this willingly.”

“Please,” Cu said, grinning widely, “he would be ecstatic. Now, are we going to absolutely destroy Mordred in Rummy or not?”

Mordred bristled, “As if. It’s your asses that are going to take a beating.”

“They will if Gudako finds out and joins,” Achilles said, wincing at the thought.

There was a moment of silence.

Then, finally, Mordred said, “Well rip to you all with E-rank luck, but I’m different.” Sure, his luck was only a D, but that was still better than E. 

Achilles threw a smirk at him, “You aren’t the only one with luck above E here, so don’t get cocky, Mo-san.”

“Look here, Carrot Top -”

“Okay!” Diarmuid interrupted, clapping his hands sharply, “Before we end up destroying the corridor, let's head to the entertainment center. Please, Gudako is going to kill us if she hears another complaint from the cleaning crew so soon after the last one.”

Mordred stared at his hand, feeling his stomach sink to his steel toed boots. He didn’t know a word bad enough to describe what was in his hand now. Not a single one, in any language, that could possibly describe the . . .  _ clusterfuck  _ of cards he had been dealt. He could tell by the extreme look of pain on Cu's face that his hand was similar, and although Achilles looked like he was in pain, it wasn’t anywhere near the gut wrenching agony in Cu’s eyes. Diarmuid’s face, however, was utterly unreadable. 

This was round three of a game to five hundred points, and the  _ only  _ person who had managed to break one hundred was Diarmuid. 

This was going to take  _ a while _ . 

“Who’s turn is it to start?” He asked, a bit desperately. He wanted it to be his turn already, he wanted to  _ throw  _ down his cards and then  _ pick  _ up the deck and  _ hurl  _ it across the room, he wanted to win . . . and the only way to do that was to salvage something of the mess he had been given. There had to be a name  _ somewhere  _ for something like this, right? Gudako probably knew one.

“It’s mine,” Cu groaned, staring at his hand, then at the card that had been flipped over, then at his hand again. “Fuck me,” he sighed.

“Pass,” Achilles muttered, “You have Emiya to do that for you.”

Mordred grabbed the box and threw it at his head. It didn’t hit, of course, Achilles was too fast for that, but the sound it made as it hit the floor was satisfying. Diarmuid sighed, set his cards down on the table, then retrieved the box. “Children, children,” he chided, wagging a finger, “don’t throw things.”

Mordred gave him the middle finger. Achilles just snorted. Cu, with trepidation, drew from the deck, then slapped his hand over his face and tossed the card down. It was an ace. Mordred looked at his hand, then looked at the ace, then looked at his hand again. A bit of hope bloomed in his stomach. Perhaps his hand wasn’t so horrible after all. Then Diarmuid picked up the ace, played and ace, two, three, and put down a ten. Mordred glared at him. “I  _ hate  _ this game.” 

Diarmuid smirked, “Just wait until we play Uno.”

Achilles drew from the deck, then face planted the table, groaning in despair. 

Eight turns later, Mordred had managed to get three jacks, Diarmuid had made two more straights, and Achilles had managed three sevens. The space in front of Cu was still empty, and the blue haired Lancer looked ready to throw his hand and leave. Mordred drew his card, winced, then set another card down. “I’m not usually one to say this, but I hope you can use that Cu. Because  _ that _ ,” he pointed at the blank spot where Cu’s spoils of war should have lain, “is just sad.”

“I can’t use that,” the words were despairing.

“You wanted to see me, Diarmuid?” The voice was feminane, light with a slight german accent, and Mordred twisted around in his seat. There was a woman standing at the entrance of the room, long white hair, red eyes, maroon shirt with a white skirt and black leggings. Homunculus. Mordred wasn’t sure why he thought that, but he knew. She was a homunculus.

Diarmuid stood, bowed slightly, “Yes I did. Thank you for coming, Irisviel.” He chuckled softly, “I wasn’t expecting you to come this early.”

She waved a hand, “Artoria’s on rotation today, as you well know. Good morning, Cu, Achilles.” Her red eyes landed on Mordred’s form, widened slightly, then she rushed forwards, taking his hand in hers. “You must be Mordred! It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Bullshit.” Mordred said, immediately.

She giggled again, “You got me there, I am a little apprehensive, but there is no reason to take that out on you.” But for all her words were cheery and her tone bubbly, there was something in her red eyes that said the opposite. ‘Hurt Artoria’, the look she gave Mordred said, ‘and I will end your life.’ Which was good, because Mordred wasn’t going to let a pushover woo his  _ father _ . “I just didn’t expect you to be so cute!”

Mordred blinked, startled, thoughts scattering, then his face began to heat up. “I AM  _ NOT  _ CUTE!!!”

Achilles and Cu, the traitors, burst into laughter. Irisviel giggled again, “Adorable then,” she released the fuming Saber’s hands and turned to Diarmuid, head tilted. “What did you want to talk about?”

Diarmuid, lips twitching, said, “Mordred wanted to meet the person who means so much to his father.”

Irisviel blushed slightly, “Really, Diarmuid, when you put it like that . . .” she covered her mouth with a hand, but her eyes were gleaming, “I’ll be right back.” A few seconds later, she returned with a chair, slipping it between Cu and Mordred, then sitting down. She turned to Mordred, eyes curious. “What did you want to know?”

And Mordred was at a loss for words, searching for something to say. He hadn’t expected her to be so . . . nice to him, not if she was as close to Father as Diarmuid said she was. “Uhh . . . I . . .” What the hell? This wasn’t like him, not at all. He was  _ Mordred Pendragon _ and he didn’t stutter, or hesitate, he said what needed to be said. With that in mind, he took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders and stared at her. “Are you in love with Father?”

She froze, eyes wide, then her head whipped around and she glared at Diarmuid. “I told you not to tell anyone!” Her cheeks were burning, the flush obvious against her pale skin. “You said it would be a secret!”

Achilles raised an eyebrow. “You were trying to keep it a secret?”

Cu snorted, “Seriously? Could have fooled me.”

Irisviel turned her glare at him. “As if you can speak, Cu Chulainn, you and Emiya have yet to announce the date of your marriage! And when I asked Emiya about it, he said there was no marriage! That it was a joke!”

Cu shrunk under her gaze, then drew himself up, “I wasn’t joking when I asked, and he accepted my proposal. We just haven’t really talked about making it official yet, and he gets so embarrassed whenever I bring it up . . .” He fell into a mumble, words getting quieter and quieter until Mordred could barely hear them.

“They’re practically married already.” Achilles pointed out, grinning widely.

“Boudica still wants the opportunity to make their cake.” Irisviel shot at him, “besides, things have been rather dour recently, with the failure to fix the rayshift capabilities to send us back into Babylon and all. A marriage would be good for morale.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Diarmuid said, leaning forwards slightly, “but isn’t Emiya technically your son in one of those alternate worlds? Wouldn’t that mean that Cu would become your son-in-law?”

There was a pause, in which Mordred’s brain attempted to catch up to the knowledge being thrown at him. He felt left out of the loop, separated from the others, and the feeling welled up in him, sharp and bitter.  _ Alone _ , obviously separated from the group, obvious that he didn’t  _ belong _ . No.  _ No _ , it was fine. He was  _ fine  _ and he wasn’t alone. He sucked in a breath, attempted to regain control of the situation. “Irisviel, do you love my father?” Was that his voice? It seemed so small and scared, uncertain with his choice of words.

She looked at him, her gaze softening. “Yes, I do,” she smiled softly, “It would be impossible for me not too.” And Mordred knew why, Father was a light, and people were drawn to him, always and forever. “I know this must be difficult for you, you’ve just come here, just coming to terms with everything that’s been thrown at you, and now you’re learning this as well. If there is anything I can do to help, just tell me.”

He didn’t need her help. He  _ didn’t  _ need her help. Because Father loved her and she loved Father, and . . . and . . . no. He closed his eyes.  _ No _ . He could feel people watching him.  _ No _ . He would not go into that spiral again. He would not. He _ did not  _ hate his father, Kairi had taught him that. Mordred _ did not  _ hate Arthur Pendragon. Mordred wanted his father to be happy, he  _ wanted  _ him to smile, and if Irisviel could give him that, then . . .  _ then  _ . . . he looked at Diarmuid, nodded once, sharply, because if he hesitated then it wouldn’t happen at all, then he looked back at Irisviel, swallowed, and said. “If you love my father, then you have to properly court him. Properly and obviously. He won’t get it otherwise.” And Mordred knew that, from the stories the other knights had told him about Guinevere. Subtle was not the way to go with his father.

Irisviel blushed again, “Well . . . I . . .”

“You could have a double marriage,” Achilles said, sitting up straighter, a grin stretching his face. “Cu and Emiya, Artoria and Irisviel. People would love it.”

Diarmuid smirked, faintly, “And do you know what else that would mean? Cu and Emiya would then be Mordred’s brothers-in-law.”

“My brain is starting to hurt.” Cu whined.

“I think,” Achilles said in the same pained tone, slumping, his grin fading from his face, “that we’re going to need a diagram.”

Mordred couldn’t help it, he started laughing, loud and long, and beside him, Irisviel started to giggle. Cu began to smirk, “I can see Emiya’s face now as I tell him of our joint marriages,” then he too lost it. 

Achilles started to chuckle, “Medea will want to make the wedding dresses.She would pay for a chance to see Artoria in a wedding dress.”

And Diarmuid, face straight, said, “We’ll have to keep Giligamesh away from the ceremony. He might throw a tantrum.” And Mordred didn’t know who Gilgamesh was, or who Medea was, but he couldn’t help but cackle as Diarmuid lost his own war with laughter. 

Lunch came, and Mordred had become well versed in Rummy, Uno, Go Fish, War, Bullshit, Spades, Oh Hell, and more in preparation for his meeting with Gudako. Irisviel had joined one round of Rummy, had won easily, and then had disappeared with a smile and a wave. For the past hour, the scents of cooking meals had drifted down the hallways, and now the time had finally come to eat. His rumbling stomach agreed with him. Achilles, however, looked vaguely uncertain. “What is the menu for today? I don’t want to walk into another pizza day without prior knowledge.”

“Pizza day was good,” Diarmuid muttered.

“Japanese,” Cu said, grinning, “Emiya was excited this morning. They had a couple more cookbooks scavenged from one of the other rayshifts, and one of them had a few recipes he hadn’t managed to try out yet.”

“What’s wrong with pizza?” Mordred asked, because he vaguely remembered pizza, and he was pretty sure that it hadn’t been horrible.

Achilles groaned, “Nothing, until you put pineapple on it. Then it’s horrible.”

“Nobody made you eat it,” Diarmuid pointed out, and Achilles made a face of extravagant disgust.

Cu laughed, pushing open the cafeteria doors, “Yeah, Carrot Top, nobody made you eat it.”

“For the last time, I am not a carrot!”

“To be fair . . .”

Mordred froze, Diarmuid’s snappy reply fading into the background, the world darkening, his vision tunneling, focusing on the sight in front of him.  _ Father  _ was there, across the cafeteria, wearing a white shirt and a blue skirt, blond hair shining in the light. He (she?) was back from rotation, back from rayshifting, and had a massive pile of food on her plate and was  _ talking  _ to Irisviel.  _ Laughing  _ with Irisviel.  _ Smiling  _ at Irisviel. He could see that smile when she turned her face slightly. The corners of her lips turned up faintly, uncertainly, as if smiling wasn’t something she was used too. She was smiling.  _ Father  _ was  _ smiling _ , was happy, and Mordred . . . Mordred . . . was spirling, spirling, down and down,  _ drowning  _ in the memories that flitted up to push everything real and solid away. The throne room, (the feeling his throat made as he  _ screamed  _ Father’s name, all the desperation and despair and hatred he could summon turning that single word into the  _ cry  _ of a drowning man) gathering Father’s enemies, (he had never been good at speaking without boasting, but he felt like a  _ shell  _ of an empty man now, a  _ puppet  _ on strings, and the only thing that kept him moving was that anger flickering in his stomach like  _ fire _ ), the battlefield, ( Rhongomyniad tearing him asunder, Father’s face, shadowed. Why didn’t she care?  _ Why  _ didn’t she  _ care _ ?) Father was smiling.  _ Father  _ was  _ smiling _ . (He should be happy.) And the anger, so familiar, was bubbling up, coating his tongue, making his mouth taste like ash. (He  _ wanted  _ his father to smile. He  _ wanted  _ her to be happy. And there she was, smiling, laughing, so  _ why  _ wasn’t he  _ happy _ ?) Breathing was coming hard now, each lungful of air painful and slow, sticking in his throat like it  _ didn’t  _ want to come. (Just look,  _ please  _ look, he would do anything if only Father  _ looked _ .) His hands were shaking, shaking, he balled them up, fingernails digging into his skin, forcing the words out. “You guys go ahead, I’ll be back.” He forced a chuckle, he wondered if he sounded and angry and lost as he felt. “I forgot to patch up my wounds this morning, I should do that before running into Nightingale.” And before they could question, he turned and ran.

Like a  _ coward _ .

_ Because he was _ . He  _ couldn’t  _ face Father’s indifference. He  _ couldn’t  _ fight back this anger. Even after  _ everything  _ he’d been through, after  _ everything  _ he’d learned, it was all he could do not to run over to Father and grab her shoulders and  _ shake  _ her and  _ scream  _ “I am here! I am here and I’m not going away! So please,  _ please  _ don’t do it again! Don’t walk away!” And it was horrible because Kairi, a  _ stranger _ , had  _ cared  _ more about Mordred than his own  _ Father _ . (And more than Morgana but Morgana  _ didn’t  _ count.)  _ Kairi  _ (the thought was like a break in a storm, and for the first time Mordred saw the flashing corridors as he ran, the doors, and he managed to stop long enough to grab one and fling it open and slip inside and shut it) had  _ cared  _ about  _ him _ . Kairi had been more of a father then  _ Father  _ had ever managed. And he  _ couldn’t  _ restrain the hysterical laugh as his hand reached up to tear at his hair (gold like Father’s, he looked so much like her, was it so hard to stare him in the face? Why? Why?  _ Why? _ ) Mordred took another strangled breath, sunk to his knees in the darkness, feeling the tears start to run down his cheeks. ( _ Weak _ , he was  _ weak _ . Nothing but a weak  _ coward _ , Morgana’s  _ weapon _ . No wonder Father wouldn’t look at him.)  _ Father _ , (He curled into a ball, fingers digging into his scalp, the pain something to focus on besides the surging hatred, breaking against his mind like waves against a beach.) Father who would only look if  _ forced  _ too.  _ Father _ , perfect Father who didn’t  _ care _ , but apparently did, just  _ not  _ about  _ him _ .

(Kairi had cared.)

_ Father _ , who stood in the cafeteria, laughing and smiling.

(He should be happy.)

_ Father _ , turning away from him, cape billowing.  _ Why  _ was she leaving?  _ Why  _ wasn’t she saying something? They were blood,  _ she  _ had a  _ son _ .  _ Where  _ was her  _ delight _ ? Her disbelief?  _ Where  _ was the open arms and the guiding light Mordred had always  _ dreamed  _ of?

(So why wasn’t he happy?)

_ “Mordred? You’ve been gone a while? Is everything okay?”  _ It was Diarmuid’s voice, in his mind, and it cut through the panic and the confusion and the anger like a hot knife through butter. He forced himself to focus on that, on his voice, on the darkness around him. He was in Chaldea. He was going to help  _ save  _ the world. He had a father figure in  _ Kairi _ . Father was  _ smiling _ . He had everything he wished for. (Right?) It would be alright.  _ (Right?) _ It would be alright. 

_ “Yeah,”  _ he thought back, wiping his wet cheeks, ( _ Weak. _ )  _ “I just couldn’t find the fucking first-aid kit. Practically tore my whole room apart. I’ll be there in a little bit.” _

_ “Good, we were worried about you.”  _

Mordred sucked in a startled breathe, then forced it out slowly. That was right. He was in Chaldea. He had  _ friends _ . He was not alone. He  _ didn’t  _ need Father, even if she didn’t smile at him. She was  _ smiling _ , and that was enough. It would have to be.  _ “Idiot, and you’re supposed to be the smart one.”  _ He forced a huff and a grin,  _ “I’m tougher than all of you combined. You don’t have to be worried about me.” _

_ “Of course not,”  _ Diarmuid’s mental voice was dry, and for a second, there was silence in Mordred’s mind, then he started again,  _ “It’s okay, you know, if you ever need to talk. You’re part of the Chaos Crew now, and we look after another.” _

Mordred scoffed, zipping and buckling his jacket, suddenly glad that most of his minor wounds were on his arms and stomach.  _ “I don’t need looking after.”  _ He shot back,  _ “I’m fine, just don’t want to get murdered by an insane nurse.” _

_ “No, that would be bad.” _ Diarmuid fell silent, and Mordred waited a few seconds for more, but nothing else was forthcoming, so he pushed the door open, and entered the hallway. The lights felt too harsh, the place too clean, too shiny, but he swallowed the sudden alien feeling and made his way to a bathroom. A few seconds later he was splashing water on his red rimmed eyes and redoing his braids and ponytail. He stared at himself in the mirror, and  _ Father  _ stared back.  _ Her  _ green-blue eyes.  _ Her  _ golden hair.  _ Her  _ face. Then Mordred sucked in a deep breath, and left the bathroom, walking down the hallways until finally, after a few stops to stare at signs on the walls, he was standing in front of the cafeteria doors.

A breath.

Another. 

He could do this.

He would do this.

He was Mordred Pendragon, son of the King of Knights, heir to the throne of Britain, and he was fit to be king. 

So he threw open the doors, walking in as if he belonged there, eyes scanning the room, not for Father, but for Achilles, Cu, and Diarmuid. He saw them, sitting at a table loaded with plates, Achilles was standing halfway up, waving in his direction, grinning as if nothing was wrong. Five plates, there were five plates and four seats, and the plate in front of the empty seat was piled high with food. Once again, he found it hard to swallow. They had made him a plate.  _ They  _ had made  _ him  _ a plate. Something warm burst in his chest, different from the oh so familiar anger, happiness, delight? God, it was  _ good  _ to have friends. He walked forwards. “You would think,” he said, spinning his chair around and sitting down, “that they wouldn’t try to hide the first aid kit. It being important and all.”

Achilles snorted, “I know right? Absolute horror. I still don’t know where mine is.”

“That’s because you never use it.” Cu shot, then he turned to Mordred grinning, “we got you a bit of everything,” he pointed to the fifth plate, also full of food, “this stuff is what Emiya cooked. Save the best for last, right?”

“Right.” Mordred agreed, a bit numbly.

Diarmuid snorted faintly, “Married.” He shook his head, smirking, but his eyes were on Mordred. Achilles and Cu were idiots, and Mordred could hide whatever the  _ hell  _ was going on with him from them as long as they didn’t see one of his . . . episodes. But Diarmuid was smart, watchful, and if Mordred wasn’t careful, he would find out. And Mordred didn’t want any of them to find out, because he didn’t want to be treated like he would blow up at a moment's notice. Because he  _ wouldn’t _ , he had better self control then that.

Probably.

So he just grinned, and dug in, as Achilles and Cu and Diarmuid bickered and threw insults and laughed. And Mordred was drawn into the conversation, and soon he found himself laughing as well. His anger, his confusion, fell away, and for a while, he was able to forget that Father was sitting and eating and laughing and smiling on the opposite side of the room.

Lunch came to a close, and Mordred was reminded abruptly that the Chaos Crew tended to dissolve after lunch. Cu disappeared first, with a puppyish look of delight on his face as he bounded towards a tall, well built, white haired man, one hand waving goodbye. He reached the other man, then, the world went dark. Mordred, with a snarl of fury, grabbed the hand that had covered his eyes and yanked. Somebody, Achilles, hit the ground hard, wheezing with the impact. “What the  _ hell?! _ ”

Achilles, over the laughter of Cu and the chuckles of the mystery man and Diarmuid, said, “I was protecting your poor, delicate eyes.”

Mordred kicked him. “I’m sixteen, you idiot. I know about sex, and I’ve seen people kissing before. _ Sheesh! _ ” He looked up and grinned at Cu, “Have fun!”

“We will!” Cu said, before the white haired man, Emiya, if Mordred had to guess, pushed his shoulder lightly, face flaming, a small smile on his lips. “Emiya~” Cu whined, eyes glinting happily.

“Don’t you start,” Emiya said, voice warm, he looked back, his eyes met Mordred’s. For a second something flashed there, and Mordred remembered that Diramuid had mentioned that he was close to Father. Then Emiya nodded once, and Mordred, after a second, nodded back, feeling as if something had passed between them even if he didn’t know what.

Cu shot a grin at them, then yelled, “See ya later!” before linking his fingers with Emiya’s and tugging him down the hallway. Emiya, with a smile and shake of his head, followed. Cu leaned against him, there was the murmur of voices, Mordred caught “double wedding” and “wingmen” and “but I was serious” before they were too far to hear their conversation.

“Why is Achilles on the floor?” It was Gudako’s voice, and Mordred twisted to see her approaching. She had changed out of her uniform at some point, and was wearing jeans and a t-shirt that said PROJECT MANAGER BECAUSE MIRACLE WORKER ISN’T AN OFFICIAL JOB TITLE in big letters. 

“Mordred’s fault.” Achilles said immediately.

“Don’t worry,” Diarmuid said, “if there was truly a chance the floor would have been injured, I would have caught him.”

Gudako sighed heavily, “Yes, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that training room.”

“Most of that was my fault,” Mordred admitted, a bit sheepishly.

“But nothing was set on fire though, and nobody died.” Diarmuid said, face carefully blank. Mordred bet he was laughing on the inside, the  _ bastard _ .

Gudako groaned, rolling her head and shrugging her shoulders. “I have a bad feeling that I set my expectations too low. Achilles, Chiron wants you.”

Achilles face paled, “Did you tell him I would come?”

“I did.”

He groaned and peeled himself up. “Fine, where is he?”

Gudako told him, and they watched as Achilles walked away as if he was headed to his execution. “Well,” Diarmuid said, “He’ll be complaining tomorrow morning, I am going to go ahead and excuse myself.” He bowed, “Mordred, Gudako.” Then he too was gone.

Gudako looked at him, one eyebrow raised, “I assume that they told you what happens now?”

“We talk, you attempt to kill me with card games, fun stuff like that.”

She grinned. “Exactly. Your room, or entertainment area?”

He sighed, running his hand over his hair. “If I am going to be utterly humiliated in Rummy, then it might as well be somewhere nobody else can see.”

She laughed, “Good choice.”

They made it to Mordred’s room without incident, although Mordred knew that something was going on because Gudako kept on making weird faces on the walk there. “Everything alright?” He asked it impulsively, because Gudako was his Master, and she  _ cared _ . She was his  _ friend _ , and Mordred might not have known much about friendship, but he knew friends looked after each other. He pushed open his door, and stared at the room, realizing for the first time how empty it was. It looked so plain, so ordinary, and suddenly he was very glad that he would be getting his furniture soon.

“Yeah,” Gudako made another face, “it was just the Servants supervising the clean up from yesterday. Arjana and Karna got into another argument, almost destroying the whole wing.” She pinched her nose, “I can’t put Heroic Spirits in time out, can I? Oh, it would be so much simpler if I could. Or I could lock them in a closet and make them sort out their problem with each other.” She took a deep breath, then slapped her hands together, “Oh well, it’s over with for now. I like the jacket.”

Mordred blinked, then grinned. “It’s fucking  _ awesome _ .”

“I’m glad you found something you like in the stacks, I know they tend to be hit and miss.” She sat on the desk, pulled a packet of cards out of her pocket, and started to shuffle them, setting the box on the wood. “So,” she said cheerfully, cards whirring gently, “What would you like to talk about?”

Mordred hopped onto the bed, crossing his ankles and grabbing his boots. “I get to pick?”

“Of course,” she flashed a smile, “I’ll admit, it’s a little bit easier with you, since I know you and all. Some of these people,” she waved a hand, “I have no clue where to start. But we’ve fought together before.” 

And against him.

And suddenly, Camelot rose in his mind, the Father that wasn’t Father, the shining spear, her distant eyes. His mouth was dry, he swallowed. “I know I said the next time we saw each other, it would be as allies, but then . . . I’m sorry about Camelot.”

Her eyes softened. “That wasn’t you, Mordred. Different summons bring out different aspects of people. That summon was twisted. It wasn’t you.”

But that was the thing, it  _ was  _ him. Or a part of him. He had destroyed  _ Camelot  _ to make Father look at him, was it such a big leap that he would do all that if Father told him too? Logically, he knew he had been  _ used _ , just as Morgana had  _ used  _ him, but he’d still been so deliriously  _ happy _ , as twisted as it was. And  _ that _ , even if Gudako said it wasn’t, was a part of him. It always would be, that need for affection, the extremes he would go to do it. Which was why he had to say this now, before things changed and twisted like they’d had back  _ then _ . “Gudako,” he swallowed, “Father might be in Chaldea, but I want you to know that I’m not going to fight for her.” Or against her. He hopped off the bed, summoning his armor and Clarent, kneeling, sword against the ground, forehead against the hilt. “I might not be the best knight, anyone would tell you the same, but I am your sword, and I pledge my allegiance to you.”

“Mordred,” her tone was soft, and he looked up just in time to see her jump off the desk and lunge at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Thank you.”

He swallowed hard, “You’re welcome.” Gudako laughed once, pulled back, smiling, and Mordred grinned right back. “So, how’s Mash?” He teased, because he needed something other than the seriousness of that moment. Unfortunately, the teasing tone seemed to fly right over Gudako’s head.

She leaned back, then stood and fetched her cards, and Mordred let his armor dissolve and Clarent disappear. “She’s doing good, better now that she knows who she’s contracted with. You deal, or I deal?”

“You deal,” Mordred said, watching her, feeling very, very bad for Mash. Gudako had no clue, he could see that in her eyes. Mash hadn’t told her.  _ Maybe _ , if he was successful with setting up Father with Irisviel, he could get the others to agree to help Mash tell Gudako that she was hopelessly in love with the orange haired Master. They both deserved some happiness after everything they had been through.

“I was worried there, for a little bit,” she smiled thinly, her eyes shadowed, “but she’s doing much better.”

“Of course she is,” he scoffed, “She’s  _ Mash _ .  _ She’s  _ not going to let anything stop her, not if she’s able to wield that shield.” He looked at his hand, cursed.  _ “Fuck.” _

She raised an eyebrow. “A flubadubadub?”

“A what now?”

“A flubadubadub, a horrible hand, a mess of nothing, jack squat.” 

“Yeah,” he  _ knew  _ she would know a word, “That sums it up.” He drew a card, winced, and set another card down. 

Gudako picked that one up, played three aces, set a card down. Mordred groaned in disbelief. How was that even  _ possible _ ? “So, how's hanging out with the Chaos Crew?”

Mordred snorted, “They’re a mess, but a good mess. I’ve enjoyed hanging out with them. Did you know that Diarmuid rearranged Father’s furniture?” He drew a card, resisted the urge to scream, threw it down.

Gudako blinked, drew a card, put a different one down, “That was him?” 

Whoops, “Might have been.” Mordred tried to look unconcerned as he drew his next card. Absolute jack  _ squat _ . He  _ hated  _ this game.

She flapped a hand, “That’s nothing, I should tell you about the prank war we had. Poor Romani.” She shook her head laughing as she picked up the stack, played a straight, and set down a card.

Mordred grinned despite her small victory, “Oh, yes,  _ poor  _ Romani. So tell me Gudako.”

“Tell you what?”

“How did the other Singularities go?”

“Oh!” She straightened, “Well, after London there was . . .”

Supper came, and when Gudako said she was eating with Mash, and was about to offer Mordred a chance to eat with them, Mordred had scrambled back and proclaimed a bit  _ too  _ loudly that she should go on ahead without him.  _ Truly _ , he was the best of friends. So in the end, Mordred made his way to dinner alone. He hesitated outside the doors, tempted to turn away and leave, but no, he was  _ Mordred Pendragon _ , and he  _ wouldn’t  _ run from this. He pushed open the doors, not as forcefully as he had in lunch, and looked around. He spotted Achilles first, looking as if he had been put through a wringer, following a long, brown haired man around while his head was dipped slightly in a picture of modest apology. The brown haired man was Chiron, obviously, there was no one else he could be. Cu was eating with Emiya in a corner booth, leaning forwards, eyes dancing, while the other man spoke. Diarmuid was sitting with Irisviel and . . . and Father. 

And a second Father.

Mordred froze, breath stuttering in his throat. There was a  _ second  _ Father, not the same as the one who looked at Irisviel with such fondness. This Father looked younger, eyes lighter, innocent, her golden hair tied back with a big bow. And suddenly, Mordred recounted Martha’s words. Four Arthurs.  _ Four  _ Arthurs in  _ Chaldea _ . Mordred was torn apart by the sight of one, but  _ four _ ? His eyes darted around the room, quicker now, he  _ couldn’t  _ stop himself from looking. For  _ searching _ . He caught sight of Chevalier, sitting with three others, two men, one with grey hair and another with the weirdest hair Mordred had ever seen, and a white haired woman. All three were staring at that white haired woman as if she had hung the stars. Then -  _ there _ ! Father, but not Father, her face was too pale, her hair the wrong shade of yellow, her eyes washed out, but her hair was the same, the way she held herself the same. She sat with a woman with a similar washed out appearance, in the midst of what looked to be a heated discussion. And . . . Mordred’s heart stopped.

The Lion King in all her glory, sitting alone, cold distant eyes scanning the room.

Mordred almost ran, because he  _ remembered _ , remembered  _ everything _ . How she had  _ used  _ him, how she had  _ treated  _ him. She had given him  _ attention  _ and he had become her dog. But no, he balled up his fists,  _ no _ . Not again. Because he did not fight for Father now,  _ not  _ for the King of Knights, and certainly  _ not  _ for the Lion King. He fought for  _ Gudako  _ and  _ Chaldea _ , for the future of  _ humanity _ . Still, he might have stood there, standing,staring, if he hadn’t seen two familiar faces walking towards Father’s, the real  _ Father’s _ , table. Lancelot and Bedivere. Father’s best friend and the teacher’s pet. The sight spurred Mordred into action, because if they could operate with four Fathers in the room, then so could he. 

He could feel the eyes on him as he walked, he  _ didn’t  _ care. He  _ didn’t _ . He grabbed his plate, and filled it up with as much food as possible, and then went to go find an empty seat. He didn’t get the chance, a meaty hand clamped onto his shoulder. “If it isn’t the little Knight of Rebellion,” a loud, deep voice with a pronounced rumble, oddly restrained for all the boisterous energy in the words, “Remember me?”

Mordred looked up, and up, and up. God, this guy was tall! Maybe even taller than Cu and Diarmuid and Achilles. He was muscular, tanned skin, lots of scars, blond hair, red eyes, tattoos up and down his arms. “You’re vaguely familiar, why? Did I kill you in a Holy Grail War?”

He began to laugh, “I threw you through a wall!”

Mordred was beginning to grin now. “I bet I returned the favor.”

“You did,” he whipped away an imaginary tear, “best fight I’d had in awhile, even if the circumstances were horrible.” He held out a hand, “Beowulf.” 

Mordred grabbed it and shook. “Mordred Pendragon.”

He grinned, “It’s good to meet you properly. Would you like to sit with me today?”

Mordred frowned, “Just us, or others? I’m reaching the limits of my politeness.” 

He laughed again, started to walk, “Too many rambunctious folk in my ordinary group to let you meet them on your first full day. You’ll have enough of that with the Chaos Crew. Besides,” he tapped the palm of his hand. “Nightingale normally sits near my table.”

Mordred looked at his hands, and noticed for the first time the small, crescent shaped cuts. Damn it. He looked around, met Diarmuid’s eyes, flashed a forced grin. His eyes trailed over the table, to meet Lancelot’s and Bedivere’s. Lancelot was staring at him with wide, disbelieving eyes, Bedivere kept glancing at Father then to Mordred and back again. Neither of the Arthurs had looked at him. The young one because she was giggling too hard,  _ Father  _ just wasn’t looking. He swallowed, turned away, then raced after Beowulf. “You know about the Chaos Crew?” 

He laughed, “Everyone knows about the Chaos Crew. Gossip spreads like wildfire here.” He sat down at an empty table, and Mordred sat opposite of him, then began to dig in. “Besides,” Beowulf shrugged, “I have an open invitation.” Mordred looked at him, raised an eyebrow, hoping that he would get the message and explain because Mordred sure as hell wasn’t going to ask. Not while there was  _ food _ . “I join them for sparring occasionally,” his teeth flashed. “But I try to stay away from their normal brand of trouble.”

This time Mordred managed to reply. “Really?”

He shrugged, “Our little Master has enough on her plate, and damage during training is one thing, but the trouble those people think up of is something completely different.”

“Gudako’s not little.”

Beowulf just looked at him.

“She’s about my height.” Mordred said, sullenly. Stupid tall people.

The Berserker laughed, “Yeah well, have you heard the stories?”

“I’ve heard about karaoke night, and about the cream, and about rearranging Father’s furniture.”

“Well,” he shook his head, “that’s just the beginning. One time, they -”

“Sir Mordred?”

Beowulf’s words cut off, Mordred stiffened, then looked up from his food, staring at the silver haired knight. “Sir Bedivere.”

He shuffled slightly, his blue-green eyes wide, his one arm shining silver. “I . . .” He trailed off, closed his eyes, took a deep breath. “May I sit down?”

Beowulf glanced at him, and Mordred realized with a sinking heart that the decision was up to him. “Yeah, whatever.”

Bedivere sat, “I wish to say that it is . . .” he hesitated.

Mordred growled, a black feeling  _ welling  _ up in his chest,  _ choking  _ him. “If you can’t spit out what ever the fuck it is, then  _ don’t  _ fucking try.”

Bedivere recoiled slightly, then sighed, “Despite your attitude, I am glad to have your strength beside us. You may have your problems, but you are a . . . strong knight.” 

Mordred froze completely, disbelief flashing across his face, there, then gone. “Well, thanks.” The words were too soft, surprised, lacking his normal vigor.

He nodded once, “Good day to you, Sir Mordred, Beowulf.” He stood up, and then he was gone, and Mordred was left reeling.

He jerked his head towards Beowulf, eyes wide, “What the  _ hell  _ just happened?”

Beowulf smiled, an almost gentle, proud smile. Something like Kairi might have worn. “I think he just said he was glad you came.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jokes on all of them, Cu was taking Emiya ice fishing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bunch of flashbacks, a small ninja, the most intense ski race ever, Gudako isn't paid enough for this, and a terrifying nurse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Fist off, as always, thank you for your comments and kudos! It really means a lot to me. Finally, I hope you enjoy this chapter and have a wonderful day!
> 
> Potential triggers, be warned.
> 
> Also, major points to the people who recognized the Holy Grail War I used for this flashback.

_ Mordred hurts, it’s a bone deep pain, worse than pain, it’s weariness too, making his brain numb. He wishes that it would make his body numb as well, but he feels every ache, every jab of agony. Gently, he rests Clarent’s tip against the ground, staring at the place where Archer had once been. It is over. He has done it. He has won.  _ _   
_ _ He wants to laugh at this messed up ending, to cheer and exult in his victory, but instead he finds himself counting his injuries, even though he knows it is a horrible idea. Right arm, shattered, spars of bone poking through skin. What had once been simply broken is now as useful as a ceramic plate that has smashed against the floor. The break was Berserker’s fault, the shattering his own. It was the kickback from using his Noble Phantasm, even with his mana supporting his broken arm, that had done it. It’s hardly the worst of his injuries. His left arm has fractures, a couple of the fingers are broken, his legs are similar. His skull is cracked, he knows this, it’s happened before, and his vision is fuzzy, black spots floating across his eyes, dancing in and out of view. His side is still bleeding from where Berserker carved through it, and every one of his ribs feel like they are broken, he knows at least one has punctured a lung, because he feels the blood against the back of his throat, the wheeze in his breath. He is nothing but a bruised and broken body, one that shouldn’t be standing even if he is, but that doesn’t matter because he has won. _

_ Caster, he died by his hands. _

_ Rider, she met a similar fate. _

_ Assassin, he was killed by Archer. _

_ Lancer, his Master shot by Assassin’s Master. _

_ Berserker, he died giving Lancer a fight in his final moments. _

_ Archer, the last of them, was killed by a Clarent Blood Arthur to the face. _

_ And now Mordred is barely standing, broken and bleeding, in an empty street. He takes a deep breath, feels the grate of bone against bone, and slips into spirit form so he can go to his Master’s side without pain. _

_ She is sitting in the windowsill, arms wrapped around legs, chin on her knees, staring out into the night. Her hair, once long, now short, glimmers translucent in the faint light, her skin is too pale, her clothes in white and gold, her eyes are the only break from the pale picture, a vivid blood red. Ilsi Von Einzbern, Master, homunculus, scared young woman who has been thrust into a war she doesn’t want to be part of even if it is her purpose. She looks over when Mordred materializes, takes in his bleeding and broken form. “It is over?” Her voice is soft and fragile, a bit hopeful. _

_ Mordred grins, even though he knows his teeth are smeared with blood. “We’ve won! The Grail is ours!” Something flickers in her face, dark and hard to read, there and then not. Mordred feels a forbidding sense of doom, his smile fades from his face. ‘What is it?” _

_ She looks away, looks back, unfolds herself from the windowsill. “The Grail can only be summoned if the Vessel is ready.” _

_ Mordred blinks. “Well, is it ready? Let’s get to summoning it! You want your wish, right?” _

_ She closes her eyes, something glimmers on her cheeks. Tears, she is crying and Mordred can’t understand why. He will pull Caliburn from the stone, and she will finally be able to be more than a pawn. She should be happy, she should be ecstatic, so why is she crying? “I didn’t think I would get this far,” her voice is so quiet, Mordred can barely make out the words, “I wasn’t supposed to make it this far.” Her eyes snap open, her head jerks up, there is an expression in her eyes that Mordred knows well, wildness, madness, disbelief, despair. “I am sorry, Saber, but you will not get your wish.” _

_ She speaks the words, but he doesn’t understand, even if a shaft is opening in his stomach. “What the hell? Why not? Isn’t the Vessel ready? Don’t we get the grail? What do you mean?” He’s pleading, and he hates it, desperation mixed with fury. He has fought and bled and killed and almost died for that damn cup, he has done so much for that wish. What has happened? What has changed? _

_ “I’m the Vessel.” She touches her chest, her eyes sorrowful. “The Grail is ready to grant our wishes, but it cannot until it is formed, and it cannot be formed until I am dead. I am so sorry Saber.” _

_ And Mordred can’t move because it makes too much horrible sense, her fear of being alone, her wish to live a normal life, being created for this war. “There has to be another!” He bursts out, “Another Vessel! We’ll find it! We can -” _

_ “No, we can’t.” She steps forwards, “because that would require killing an innocent, and that is something you will not do.” _

_ She is right, he’s not the best knight, but he doesn’t involve civilians. And he won’t kill her either, because even though she’s a coward and even though she has pulled him back from battle after battle, she has managed to get this far. She has managed to survive and she is pushing for a life better than what she has been allowed. Like Mordred had been, so long ago, before everything went wrong. _

_ “I’m sorry,” she says again, “you got the wrong Master. If it helps,” she attempts a smile, it doesn’t work, “I will not live much longer. A few days at most.” _

_ “It doesn’t help.” He says it numbly, because he knows his body, he won’t make it through the night. He’s pulled too much mana from her to get this far, and she does not have enough left to save him. By daybreak, he will be gone. His dream, his wish, it has just been snatched from him, right under his nose, and now it is gone until the next time it is summoned. _

_ “I’m sorry.” She knows it too. _

_ “It’s not your fault,” he grumbles, sitting down as carefully as he can manage. He would love to rage and scream and yell that it wasn’t fair, but life isn’t fair, and if he did so, he would just end up dissolving faster. He doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to stay in the throne, in that nothingness, that emptiness any longer than necessary. “So, Master, what will you do now?” _

_ She looks at him, then out the window. Her face lights up. “I’ll live, truly live, for as long as I am able too. Thank you, Saber.” _

_ This time, his grin is almost gentle. He’s not told thank you often, and it’s nice to hear it, even in this situation. “You’re welcome.” _

_ He is thrust into the room, Mother’s hand on his back, the sword heavy in his grip. It is bigger than him, he can barely lift it. Her voice is soft, hissing, hypnotic, he always thinks of a snake when he hears it, weaving back and forth before it strikes. “Destroy this golem I’ve built for you, Mordred, and you can have your supper.” _

_ He’s eight weeks old and he looks like he’s five. He’s small and scared and he’s never held a sword before. He’s old enough to know that he hates his mother and her magic, and if the thing in front of him doesn’t kill him, supper will be cold and lumpy and quite possibly poisoned. _

_ The door shuts behind him. The room is left in darkness. Something in it creaks and grinds, rock against rock. He can barely make out a hulking mass, lumpy and brutish, but the glowing crystal eyes are clear. _

_ He wants to wrench the door open and run outside, away from this thing in front of him. He wants to find Mother and make her take it back. He wants to be anywhere but here, to throw his sword down and quit. But he is eight weeks old and he knows already what happens when he disobeys Mother.  _

_ Nothing good. _

_ He is stuck between a monster in front of him, and a monster behind. _

_ He lifts his sword, weaving in his hands, inch by inch, tip wavering with the effort. His heart is beating in his chest, fast, too fast, so fast he’s afraid it is going to burst. He’s sweating, bangs plastered to his face. But he swallows his fear, and tells himself a lie. He is Mordred le Fay and he is not afraid. He thinks it again, hoping it will help. He is Mordred le Fay and he is not afraid. Slowly, he lifts his chin, tears tracing down his cheeks, and in a quivering, small voice, he says. “I am Mordred le Fay, and I am not afraid of you.” _

Mordred tumbled off the bed, gasping for breath, sheets strangling him, tangling his limbs as he hit the floor. For a few seconds, he lay there, heaving fresh air, the memories tangling and untangling in his mind. A Holy Grail War, another one, he knew he didn’t have a lot but that makes two, and . . .  _ and  _ . . . he stumbled up, raced to the bathroom, tripped, rolled, got up again, and made in just in time to hurl the contents of dinner into the toilet. 

It didn’t taste as good coming up as it had going down. 

Finally, he leaned back, whipping his mouth, before flushing the toilet and turning on the sink. He stared at himself in the mirror, the shadows on his skin, the tangles in his hair, strands damp with sweat, the fear in his eyes. He splashed cold water against his face, then cupped his hand under the stream, brought the water to his lips, swished and spat. He straightened, stared at the mirror again. “I am  _ Mordred Pendragon _ , and my mother is  _ nothing  _ to me.” He bared his teeth at the mirror, a facsimile of a grin. “I am  _ Mordred Pendragon _ , and I can do  _ anything  _ I put my mind to.” 

_ I am Mordred le Fay and I am not afraid of you. _

A surge of anger, rushing through his veins, lighting them up as if they were tinder and his anger fire. He clenched his fists, restrained the urge to punch the mirror, to watch it shatter beneath his strike. “I am  _ Mordred Pendragon _ , and that was  _ nothing _ . She is  _ nothing _ . I am  _ Mordred Pendragon _ , and what she did to me _ does not  _ matter.” Gawain and Gaheras and Gareth had been lucky, they had made it out before she’d managed to sink her claws in deep. Agraiven hadn’t been as lucky, but he had still escaped, even if he bore the scars all his life. Mordred had been the one she had created, shaped and sculpted to her purposes. Her little  _ weapon  _ of vengeance, a  _ sword  _ meant for Arthur’s heart. “I am  _ Mordred Pendragon _ , and I make my own choices.”

(He’s done exactly what she wanted that day.)

“I am  _ Mordred Pendragon _ , and I want my father to smile. I don’t want to kill her. I don’t want to hurt her.”

(So why had he done it then? Why the rage when she hadn’t looked now? It shouldn’t matter, as long as she was smiling it shouldn’t matter. So why did it?)

“I am  _ Mordred Pendragon _ , and I know what I want.”

(He was Mordred le Fay, and he couldn’t even lie to himself.)

He jerked away from the mirror, summoning his armor with a growl, racing out of his rooms in spirit form. He  _ needed  _ a fight. He  _ needed  _ it now. He  _ needed  _ to hear something break and crash and cry out in pain. He  _ needed  _ to vent and calm this energy fizzing in his blood. He  _ needed  _ to destroy something.

Right _fucking_ now.

Mordred opened the door to the first sparring room, hoping beyond hope that somebody would be there. He hadn’t seen anyone in the hallways, which was a shame, but certainly somebody would be in the sparring rooms, even at this time of night.  _ Nothing _ ,  _ nobody _ . Not in the next room either. He felt the panic rise, what would he do if there  _ wasn’t  _ somebody to fight? He knew his anger, it needed an outlet, it was the only way it would cool. Otherwise, well, it would be Camelot all over again and he was dead set against Chaldea being  _ another  _ Camelot. He continued on, opening doors more roughly, his panic and anger growing with each empty room. Somebody,  _ somebody  _ had to be here. There was a veritable  _ army  _ in this place! Certainly  _ someone  _ needed a sparring partner in the middle of the night!  _ Someone _ ! He jerked open the last door.

And froze.

It was like looking into another world, one of concrete towers and light posts flickering and twisting mists. London. It looked like London.  _ Too  _ much like the London from that one Singularity, and for a second he felt like he was patrolling the streets, a  _ hero _ , not the boy who  _ destroyed  _ the shining city. But there was something better than the London look alike, there was a battle going on. Mechanical dolls like the ones in London fought with their jerky, twirling movements, spinning this way and that, faces blank and empty. Someone, their enemy, flickered through their ranks like a shadow. A flash of white cloth, a glimpse of red hair, the gleam of shining steel as it flew through the air. One of the dolls stumbled back, knife in its forehead, before dissolving as if it had never been, knife clattering to the floor. 

A fake London, and a fake battle.

Mordred  _ didn’t  _ care, he stepped through the opening, shut the door behind him, and  _ lunged  _ into the fray, sword swinging wildly, his helmet clicking over his head, restricting his vision. It  _ didn’t  _ matter, his instincts guided him, in a burst of red lightning, another doll fell. The other Servant, an Assassin if Mordred was going to guess, switched their game, from attack to support. Knives found joints, chains wrapped around hands and tangled around feet, allowing Mordred to  _ tear  _ through them like they were wet paper, and soon, it was only him and the Servant in the misty street of the false London.

**“Simulation complete~”** It was Da Vinci’s voice, cheerful as ever, with a synthetic buzz. Mordred watched as the false London dissolved, the walls and floors being replaced by shining chrome. This room looked much sturdier than the other training rooms, much more high tech too. 

Mordred looked at the other Servant, a boy, the proper height which is to say short, a mop of red hair covering most of his face, layered, detailed clothes. “What the  _ hell  _ was that?” His voice was a bit too loud, a bit too wild, but he didn’t  _ care  _ because he was shaking now with the need for violence.

“Ah!” The boy jumped, what was visible of his face going as red as his hair, and Mordred couldn’t help but wonder why. Mordred sure as  _ hell  _ didn’t have presence concealment, and the boy had changed his fighting style the minute Mordred had entered the skirmish. “Ah . . .” he covered his mouth, “my apologies.” 

There was an awkward silence.

Oh yes, his helmet, his  _ stupid _ , identity concealing helmet. Mordred deconstructed it, held out a hand. “Mordred Pendragon, you are?”

He shifted, took his hand, gave it a brief shake. “Fuuma Kotarou . . . ah . . . ” He pulled out a knife, began to play with it nervously, and then, as if realizing what he was doing, put it away. “It’s nice to meet you?”

“Yeah, yeah,  _ whatever _ , save it for someone who cares. What the  _ hell  _ is this place?” Perhaps his words were too sharp, but the brief fight hadn’t done enough, he  _ needed  _ more, otherwise he was going to go  _ crazy _ .

“Ah,” Fuuma tilted his head, there was the briefest flash of a red eye, “the simulation room, it’s Da Vinci’s creation. It’s got all kinds of battles in the system. I . . . ah . . . I come here to test them out.”

Mordred wondered, briefly, if he had his own problems with sleep, then dismissed the notion. It  _ didn’t  _ matter right now. What  _ mattered  _ was getting this itchy feeling out of his veins. “What types of simulations?”   
“All types,” he walked up to a wall, flipped open a panel. “Which would you like to see?” He sounded more confident now, his shyness replaced by a business like manner. 

“The hardest you have.”

He tilted his head, “The hardest is . . . ah . . . It's the Lion King.” He said it softly, fingers hovering over the panel.

Mordred sucked in a deep breath, let it out. This was good, this was  _ fine _ . “Load it.” His voice, it sounded wrong, blank, he sucked in another breath, and then added on, “Please.”

For a second, he could feel Fuuma’s gaze, even if he couldn’t see the stare. Finally though, the Assassin nodded and pressed a few keys. And then,  _ then _ , they were in Camelot’s throne room. Mordred didn’t give the simulation a chance to load completely, as soon as  _ her  _ shape began to form he lunged, lightning trailing off his armor, a yell of fury in his throat. He got in one good slice across her breastplate, then Rhongomyniad knocked him away. He caught a glimpse of  _ her  _ blue-green eyes,  _ her  _ golden hair, and the pent up fury, the shit from the past few days  _ exploded _ . He charged, twisting away from the strike of the glowing lance, drawing his sword against her horse's flank. It skittered aside, then kicked out, Mordred’s pauldren was clipped, metal shattered, he ignored it. A burst of lightning, he was in the air, dropping down, sword over his head. Was he screaming? He couldn’t hear himself. Rhongomyniad blocked the attack, The Lion King’s arm dipped slightly, then the small Saber was tossed across the room, tumbling and turning before scrambling back up. He lunged into the attack again, watched as the Lion King, tried to move, watched as a chain wrapped around her arm. Claret bit into her shoulder, her horse reared, hooves collided against his chest, driving him back, a knife shining through the air, the Lion King moved to the side, a line of red drew itself across her cheek.

Mordred drew back, panting.

Across the battlefield, Fuuma was there, then gone. 

The Lion King watched him, her eyes distant and cold. The rage built up again,  _ why  _ was she always so distant and cold? Mordred had done  _ everything  _ for her (and how he  _ hated  _ himself for doing so) and still this version of Father treated him like  _ nothing _ . Less than! (A  _ tool _ .) Because she treated him like  _ Morgana  _ had treated him! (Nothing but a  _ weapon _ .)  _ Worse _ , because while Mordred could fight Morgana tooth and claw, his father was a light, his father was  _ everything  _ and he would do  _ anything  _ to stay bathed in that light and away from Morgana’s darkness! (All he was was a  _ tool _ , good for nothing but pointing and  _ shooting _ .) She hadn’t  _ believed  _ in him, Morgana hadn’t  _ believed  _ in him,  _ none  _ of them had ever  _ believed  _ in him! 

No.

That was wrong.

Kairi had believed in him. Gudako and Mash believed in him. Bedivere had spoken to him and said he was glad, if wary, that Mordred had come. He had friends, three already with the potential for more. Father, the real Father, was smiling. 

He was making a new life for himself,  _ free  _ from Morgana’s shadow and the Lion King’s control.

Mordred grinned at the false Lion King, a thing of teeth and fury. His words were a growl, a rumble of rage. “I AM  _ NOT  _ YOUR  _ DOG _ , YOU  _ BITCH _ !” Then he was after her, a bolt of red light, too fast to block or dodge. She stood her ground, her eyes glowing now, Rhongomyniad a burning light. She held up her lance, the point aimed at Mordred’s chest, and for a second he faltered (the battlefield,  _ Father’s  _ face, Rhongomyniad through his stomach, bursting through his back, the pain  _ blinding _ , the disbelief and despair, his anger  _ halted  _ for the briefest moment) then a chain wrapped around the shining spear, yanking it briefly of course. Mordred gave another burst of power, pouring  _ everything  _ he had into this final strike. Clarent descended, a mocking parody of the death blow he had dealt his real father so long ago. It hit right beside her neck, cleaved down, ripping open the breastplate until it ruptured her core. She flickered out of existence, the throne room disappeared, and Mordred hit the floor, rolling, dissolving his armor, panting heavily.

**“Simulation complete~”**

He felt lighter, somehow, as if he had eased some burden that he couldn’t name. 

“Ah . . . would you like some help up?”

“No, I’m good.” He pushed himself up, stared at the fidgeting Assassin. “I didn’t need the help, but thanks.”

Fuuma tilted his head slightly, his red hair shifted, and Mordred wondered how the hell he could see. “I am here every night, but . . . uh . . . you are free to use the simulators if you wish.”

Mordred nodded. “Nightmares?” He wasn’t sure why he asked, because it wasn’t as if he cared, but the itching need for a fight had left his veins, leaving him at a loss for what to do.

Fuuma ducked his head, “Not really, simply . . . memories.”

Mordred snorted, “Yeah, those are  _ way  _ fucking worse.” Then he stretched, listening as his back popped with the movement, “I’m back to bed, I might be here tomorrow night.”

“Very well,” he tipped his head slightly, “Ah . . . goodnight.” Then he was gone, as if he’d never been, and Mordred made his way to his room.

Achilles was at his door, pacing back and forth, tugging at his hair, glancing around nervously, looking way more anxious than anyone of his height should be. Mordred stared at him, stopping his approach. “What the  _ hell  _ are you doing?”

Achilles twisted to stare at him, eyes lighting up, “There you are! I was looking all over for you!”

“Couldn’t have been very hard,” Mordred shot back, crossing his arms and glaring at him. “That doesn’t explain what you’re doing.”

Achilles just grinned, eyes gleaming. “Come on,” he bounded down the hallway, before tossing back a smirk, “Unless the little Knight of Rebellion is scared?”

“Fuck you too!” Mordred snarled, chasing after him, because  _ nobody  _ spoke to him using baby talk and got away with it. At all. Achilles, the bastard, sped up with a laugh, and Mordred, because it was his go to answer for  _ anything _ , summoned Clarent and threw the sword at the running Rider’s back. Achilles twisted, eyes widening, tripped, and stumbled, and Mordred, with a burst of red lightning, rammed into his back, shoulder first. He wasn’t wearing his armor, just his regulation Chaldean pajamas, but it still had to  _ hurt _ . Achilles fell, and Mordred fell on top of him, making sure to pin his arms as he did so. “Got you, you carrot topped fucktard! Now, explain yourself! I’m a prince you know, that’s royalty, you idiot. When I say something, you do  _ something _ !”

“Well, I see someone has had a wonderful night.” Achilles groused. “We were going to throw you a proper Chaos Crew welcome, but we’re going to be late if you don’t get off me.”

Mordred got up, sniffed, and said, “Very well, your excuse is acceptable.”

“Very well,” Achilles mocked, standing up and brushing off his horrible shirt, “your excuse is acceptable.”

Mordred kicked him.

“Ow,” he whined, hopping on one foot to rub his shin, “has anyone told you that you’re very immature?”

“Has anyone told you that you act like a child?” Mordred said, walking past him to pick up Clarent. “Where are we going?” 

“Diarmuid’s room. Come on, this way.”

Diarmuid opened the door, raising one eyebrow. “Where’s Cu?”

Achilles gave him a blank look. “I thought you were getting Cu.”

“No,” he said, giving Mordred a tired but amused glance, “I said I was getting the supplies. You were supposed to fetch the rest of the crew.” He stepped out of the way, hesitated, looked at Achilles, raised his eyebrow again, then looked at Mordred, something like mischief flaring in his eyes. “Would you mind getting Cu? I’m afraid that Achilles will screw it up somehow.”

Mordred burst out laughing, “Sure, whatever, where is he?”

“Down this hallway, take a right, fourth door on the left. Achilles, don’t give me that look, you know you’d mess it up.”

“I would not!”

Mordred slapped Achilles back, said “Yeah, you would.” Then, in a flash of red lightning, he was gone, walls and doors flashing by him. A few seconds later, he was skidding to halt in front of the door to Cu’s room. He almost knocked, but no, he might have felt better, but he  _ still  _ wanted to make an entrance. He kicked the door down, hard enough that it opened, but not so hard that it went flying across the room.

He regretted it immediately.

_ “HOLYSHITOHMYGODWHATTHEHELLARGHMYEYES!” _ Mordred stumbled back, words coming out in a tangled mess, arms crossed over his face, eyes screwed shut, trying  _ desperately  _ to wipe the image from his mind. He wasn’t succeeding. He wasn’t succeeding  _ at all _ . 

“Deal with it!” Cu called from inside the room, his voice breathless, “you’re the fucker who kicked open the door!”

“Shut it before you leave,” that was Emiya, whom Mordred had just seen way too much off, his voice similarly breathless.

Mordred gagged. “ _ Hell _ no!” And risk seeing more than just a glimpse?  _ No  _ fucking  _ way _ . “Close your own damn door!” And Mordred, self proclaimed strongest Saber, turned and ran away, back down the halls towards Diarmuid's room. He burst in, still scrubbing at his eyes. He pulled his hands away to glare at Diarmuid, remembering the flash of mischief in the Lancer’s eyes as he asked him to fetch Cu. He pointed, horror still in his voice. “You  _ asshole _ !”

Diarmuid raised an eyebrow, lips twitching in amusement. “I don’t see Cu.”

“If it’s so important, you go fetch him!” He started scrubbing at his eyes again, “I did not need to see  _ that _ !”

“Oh,” Achilles said, as if he hadn’t figured it out already. Diarmuid had probably told him, it had probably been a little joke between the two. Mordred was going to kick both their asses tomorrow. “I thought you knew about sex.”

“Just because I know about it  _ doesn’t  _ mean I want to see people going at it!” Mordred wailed.

Diarmuid chuckled, “It is a sight many an unfortunate soul has been made to witness, if only briefly. As much as Emiya remembers to lock their door, Cu manages to forget just as often. Here,” he grabbed Mordred’s shoulders, spun him around, “I trust this will make up for it.”

“You bastard,” Mordred grumbled, not ready to forgive him, “you knew.”

“I didn’t,” he said, straight faced, “I simply suspected.”

“I  _ hate  _ you.” Mordred moaned, but still, he looked at the stuff Diarmuid was showing him. Heavy winter gear, four sets, one considerably smaller than the other, and other, more obscure stuff. “Skiing equipment? What are you doing with skiing equipment?”

“Well,” Achilles said, voice eager, “Humanity made be incinerated, but the world isn’t. There is a mountain outside prime for a bit of skiing.”

Okay, he could get that, and now excitement was starting to rise in his throat, replacing the last remaining dredges of anger at Morgana and the Lion King, washing away the sight of Cu and Emiya intertwined. “And we’re doing this at night, why?”

“It’s more challenging that way,” Diarmuid said, simply, “Don’t worry, we shouldn’t get in trouble, there is nothing in the rules saying we can’t do this. Besides, if we do, we’ll just blame it on Achilles, it was his idea after all. Catch.” He tossed the smaller set of cold weather gear at Mordred.

Mordred looked at it, then looked at Achilles who was yanking on his own set, then back at Diarmuid. “We’re Servants? We don’t need protection from the cold.”

Achilles shot him a grin, “It’s for the ambiance.”

“Do you even know what that means?” Diarmuid asked, a bit too innocently.

“Fuck you.” Achilles reply was immediate.

Mordred snorted loudly, and began to drag his gear on.

It was  _ cold _ , Mordred had known it would be cold, but still, this was an entirely different type of chill. It bit into his skin, sinking into his bones, making his fingers and toes feel brittle. Each breath was accompanied by freezing pain, his nose burned, already, snowflakes clung to his lashes. The world around him was a blend of darkness and light, the white of the falling snow mixing with the blackness of night. The result was a grayness that made it hard to discern anything. He adjusted his skies, gripped the handles of his pole more tightly. “How far are we going down?”

“As far as possible,” Achilles said, his voice almost lost in the howling winds. 

“I think,” Diarmuid called, “That there needs to be something at stake.”

“As if our pride isn’t?” Mordred called.

There was a pause. “I take your point.”

“Wait, no,” Achilles eyes glinted brightly in the grayness, his orange scarf fluttering dimly in the wind. “I’m no knight, and I like the idea of something being at stake. How about this, if I lose, I wear a bunny suit on Halloween.”

“You’re a Rider,” Diarmuid pointed out, “and this isn’t a race.”

“Oh no,” Mordred flashed a grin, “it’s a race now. If I lose, then I’ll . . .” he trailed off, trying to think of something suitably motivating. “Shit, I don’t know. I’ll wear a dress or something I guess.”

“Seriously?” Achilles said, unimpressed.

“ _ What _ ,” Mordred snapped, “I  _ don’t  _ like dresses, and I  _ don’t  _ like girly clothing. Besides, yours was clothing related to.” He turned expectantly to Diarmuid.

Diarmuid sighed heavily, “Fine, if I lose, I will spend one full day in Fionn’s presence. While also managing to be completely respectable, the perfect knight, and I will not back talk him or be sarcastic at all.”   
“Damn,” Achilles muttered, “I kinda feel like upping my game now. Can I change my thing?”

Mordred glanced to where Diarmuid stood, tall against the howling wind and snow. He could swear that the Lancer’s eyes were glowing gold through the swirling flakes. “You’re the only person here that doesn’t have a riding skill.”

Diarmuid flashed a grin, on and off. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t intend to lose.” Then he was gone, flashing down the side of the mountain, close to the ground, poles working in tandem.

“HEY!” Achilles cried, “THAT’S CHEATING!”

Mordred was tempted to yell too, but no, it wasn’t worth it. In a burst of red lightning, he launched himself down the slope, snow flying in his wake. The skies under his feet felt wrong, the poles in his hands awkward, but he was adjusting quickly. He’d driven a  _ car  _ before, and flown a  _ plane _ ! This wasn’t  _ that  _ hard.

A flash of white light by him, there was Achilles, orange scarf fluttering, training behind him. He moved quickly, seeming to glide across the snow. Just in front of them was Diarmuid, crouched down, poles moving to guide him around rocks and dips in the snow. Mordred, with another burst of mana, reached out and snagged Achilles’ scarf, yanking hard. With a strangled yelp, the Rider lost balance and tumbled into the snow. There was a curse, but Mordred didn’t look back to see how he was doing, focusing on Diarmuid’s form as he weaved and bobbed across the snow. He was closer now, approaching swiftly. Diarmuid twisted, one pole jamming into the ground and spinning him around, the other swung at Mordred’s legs, too fast to follow. Modred felt the hit, yelped in shock, and lost his balance, tumbling forward and rolling as Diarmuid shot past him again. 

Oh yes, Diarmuid was ambidextrous, how the  _ hell  _ had he forgotten?

With a growl, because it was  _ on  _ now, Mordred pushed himself out of the snow, struggling to his feet as Achilles flashed by him. The Rider even had the gall to laugh! Mordred snarled in his direction, a forced grin full of barred teeth, then closed his eyes. In this visibility, they were useless anyway. He would just have to trust his instincts, which were absolutely  _ wonderful _ . He pushed off, feeling flakes spatter across his nose and cheeks. He could hear them both now, their panting breaths, the shift in their clothes. Mordred banked right, dodging a boulder that jutted out of the ground, practically invisible in the current conditions. Some one, Diarmuid if he was going to guess, wasn’t so lucky. There was a loud oomph and a rushed exhale of air. Mordred focused on the crackle of lighting, giving off his own burst of mana, dodging a tree, then another, he could hear Diarmuid behind them catching up quickly. The howl of the wind was louder now, joined with the creaking of trees as they shifted with the gusts. Mordred wasn’t sure how far they’d gotten, but he knew Achilles slowed down to navigate the corpse of trees because the crackle that was in front of him drifted back behind him. Mordred didn’t slow down, using his poles to dodge trees with ease. He could feel a bubble of laughter rise up in him, then another, then another, delighted and happy and gleeful. He  _ couldn’t  _ stop them, he  _ didn’t  _ want to stop them, because he was racing the  _ wind  _ now,  _ unstoppable  _ as he made his way down the mountain.

His laughter was his downfall.

There was a burst of pain in his shoulder, his vision went white, he was sent spinning out of control, hitting another tree trunk,  _ hard _ . There was a woosh of air as Achilles, then Diarmuid, passed him, he opened one eye, glaring at the tree. He had miscalculated, hadn’t dodged far enough to the side. His shoulder was throbbing, probably dislocated, and every second he wasted focusing on the pain was a second the others got further away. 

He got unsteadily to his feet, pushed off.  _ This time  _ no fancy tricks using his instincts to guide him.  _ This time  _ he was a rocket propelled by his own mana, flying over the snow and bursting through trees. Shards cut his clothes, bit into his skin, he didn’t care. His eyes were squinted against the howling wind and snow, he could dimly make out the sight of Achilles and Diarmuid, neck to neck, Diarmuid using his poles and sprays of snow to make Achilles slow down, while Achilles fought for the lead with his own bursts of lightning and his superior technique. With a snarl, he threw himself further, faster, a blaze of red lightning. In an instant he was there, hitting Achilles’ back before either of them could stop. Achilles flailed, fell over, Mordred’s skies caught with his, he was tangled with the Rider as he rolled, trapped like a fly in sticky paper. Diarmuid, spun out of the way just in time as Achilles and Mordred, locked together, unable to untangle, flailed and tumbled their way past him. They continued to roll, Mordred’s momentum pushing them forwards, snow clinging to their clothes and sticking to their faces. Mordred thought he saw Diarmuid smirk, he knew the Lancer saluted before continuing on his merry way. Achilles and him, however, were stuck, more snow clinging to them with every rotation, their momentum increasing, until finally it stopped with a bone jarring, painful halt. 

“ _ Ow _ ,” Mordred said amidst a crumpled pile of snow, staring up at the sky.

“Thank Zeus for giant boulders.” Achilles grumbled, untangling his skies and poles from Mordred's own set of equipment. “You think we’re close to bottom?”

“Can’t be far now.” Mordred said, attempting to push himself up. His shoulder jolted, he hissed in pain. Definitely dislocated. Oh well. He’d suffered worse.

“Yeah, see you at bottom.” He shot off, and Mordred struggled to his feet, cursing as he too set off.

He’d managed to catch up to Achilles by the time they reached bottom, and a burst of mana sent him neck to neck with the Rider. They both collapsed, panting for breath. Mordred’s shoulder was  _ absolutely  _ throbbing by now, like it had it’s own  _ fucking  _ heartbeat. Diarmuid clapped. “Delightful, I think you tied for last place.”

“Whelp,” Achilles managed, “I guess I know what my Halloween costume is going to be.”

“I don’t have to wear a dress if I burn all the dresses in Chaldea.” Mordred said, sullenly.

Diamruid laughed, “Yes, well, nobody wants to see Achilles in a bunny suit. We’re all going to suffer.”

“Fuck you,” came Achilles tired reply, “I’m going to look great in that bunny suit.”

Diarmuid held out a hand, and after a second, Mordred grabbed it so the Lancer could pull him onto his feet. “Hopefully, George will take pictures. Mordred, your shoulder is dislocated.”

“I know  _ that _ .”

“Hold still.” A brief flash of pain, then his shoulder felt much, much better.

“Thanks.”

“You didn’t even flinch,” Diarmuid said, a bit surprised. 

“Yeah, Morgana had a really screwed up definition of training, so I’m used to it.”

“I doubt it could be worse than Chiron’s training,” Achilles said.

“Really, what does he do?”

“He once shot arrows at me for a full day until I learned to mark their trajectory with my eyes.”

“Yeah, well, Morgana locked me up in a room with a golem, and didn’t let me out until I’d demolished it.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“I was  _ five _ .” Mordred stressed, bitterness rising up again. There was a pause, suddenly, the silence felt too heavy.  _ No _ , he’d been having fun, he wasn’t going to let Morgana ruin this as well. “So,” he said, forcing cheerfulness back into his voice, “How the hell are we going to get back up?”

“This was your plan Achilles,” Diarmuid said, but his voice was a bit distant, and Mordred could feel his sharp eyes on him.

“You know,” Achilles said, a bit sheepishly, “I really didn’t think this through, did I?”

It was  _ way  _ past lunch time by the time the three had managed to climb back up the mountain to Chaldea. The snowfall was lighter, the sun peaking through the clouds, but Gudako’s face as she stood there, bundled up for the cold, was anything but cheerful. Beside her stood Mash, similarly bundled up, and a vaguely amused but also definitely disappointed Chiron.

Mordred had never been grounded before, mainly because Morgana’s idea of punishment was to inflict horrific amounts of pain or to poison him, but he had a sneaking suspicion that he was about to learn what it was like. 

“You three,” Gudako said, her voice strained. “Infirmary, now.” She sneezed, and Mash, after the briefest hesitation, stepped close to her, taking off her scarf and wrapping it atop Gudako’s own. Gudako sent her a smile that made the Demi-Servant’s face flush slightly, then turned her glare on the three Servants in trouble. “Then, after I have Nightingale give all three of you a thorough checkup, we will have a talk.”

Diarmuid and Achilles paled, Mordred, remembering Diarmuid’s advice from before, attempted a last ditch effort. “Achilles’ fault.”

“I,” said Chiron, “am hardly surprised.”

Achilles actually whimpered.

Nightingale ended up being a red eyed, pale haired woman who took one look at Mordred’s many scrapes, Diarmuid’s slightly squashed nose and blackened eye, and Achilles relatively unscathed look, and went, well, not crazy, but definitely fidgety. “Master,” She said, her voice oddly calm for all her pupils were pinpricks and she had the gaze of a cat who had sighted a mouse, “I will take Mordred first. Those scratches are bleeding, and if they have not been cleaned yet there is a possibility of them being infected and being infected means a possibility of blood poisoning which can be fatal. Immediate treatment is advised, I suggest cauterization. You will scar but scarring is better than death.”

Mordred’s eyes widened, he took a step back, raising his hands. “No, no that's  _ not  _ necessary. They’re just little cuts. See? Nothing’s wrong. Just little cuts caused by trees?” He glanced at the others a bit desperately. Achilles had tried to escape, but Chiron had him by the ear. Diarmuid looked resigned to his fate. Mash looked a bit worried, but the expression on Gudako’s face was as hard as flint.

He glanced back just in time to see Nightingale’s eyes brighten, seeming to grow bigger, spinning, spinning. “Caused by trees? There is bacteria in wood and bark that can cause infections, additionally, some trees have bark that is poisonous, and many types of moss and lichen are poisonous. It is possible that you now have toxins in your bloodstream. Recommended treatment is draining of blood. What is your type? I will have replacement blood on hand.”

Mordred yelped and fell silent, staring at the monster in front of him. Gudako raised a hand, “Please, Nightingale, nothing that severe. The climate is too cold up here for moss and lichen, and the trees in this area aren’t poisonous. But I do want a full body examination of Mordred, Diarmuid, and Achilles. Treat as needed, but nothing that will impede their fighting capabilities, is that clear?”

Nightingale nodded curtly, “Very well, come, Mordred. Or I will have to make you come.”

Mordred turned to Gudako, “ _ Please _ , don’t make me.” He didn’t say please often, but he was feeling desperate now.  _ Especially  _ since  _ Achilles  _ of all people was trying to get away. Cu’s story rose into his mind unbidden, fear tasted bitter in the back of his throat.

“Mordred,” his name was said warningly.

With a despairing sigh, Mordred followed the nurse as she walked into the examination room.

The next hour was the most embarrassing and horrifying hour of his life.  _ Finally  _ though, it ended and Mordred was escorted out of the room, shoulders slumped, head down, while Nightingale walked straight back and serious faced beside him, clipboard tucked under one arm. “Master, I have treated the patient’s various cuts and scrapes, but there are more important matters to be discussed. Will you come into my office for confidentiality? I do not wish to spill secrets the patient does not wish others to hear.”

Gudako blinked, “Very well.”

They stepped into Nightingale’s office, and the Berserker closed the door. “I would like to start with the obvious signs of malnutrition.”

“Malnutrition?” Gudako asked, surprised.

Mordred made a face, “I  _ don’t  _ even know what that  _ means _ .”

“Yes, malnutrition, especially in early ears.” Her face tightened, “This has impacted growth, brain development, and temperament. Not only this, but every bone in the patient's body has signs of being broken at least once, and many multiple times and without being given the proper time to heal. As a result, the patient's bones are much more fragile than they should be. The patient’s age is sixteen, but has suffered the damages of a warrior three times his age.” She clenched her pen tighter as Mordred glared at the floor, wishing he could disappear. He  _ didn’t  _ need his whole fucking story disassembled in front of Gudako. He  _ didn’t  _ need her  _ pity _ . But Nightingale wasn’t done, “This is not all, although the patient's physical age is sixteen, there is no guessing his true age, because he is fundamentally not human, which means all of these damages probably happened within the first couple of years of his birth.” She turned to Mordred, and there was a cold anger in her voice, “I would like to find your creator and dissect them, so I may find out what sickness lies within them that would allow them to do something like this to you.” She took a deep breath, turned back to Gudako, “As I cannot do that, I can only help with the treatment. I suggest the patient be taken off the front lines and prevented from doing strenuous activity until these problems are resolved. I have prescribed vitamin supplements and a diet rich in nutrients that should be given to the kitchen staff.” She handed over the clipboard to Gudako, her eyes cold.

“ _ Gudako _ ,” Mordred yelped, twisting to stare at the orange haired Master, “you  _ can’t  _ take me off the front lines, or restrain me from fighting.  _ Please _ .” Was he begging? He felt like he was begging. He sounded like he was begging. He  _ hated  _ begging, and he  _ hated  _ this.  _ Every  _ little  _ part  _ of this  _ fucking  _ situation.

Gudako sighed heavily and stared at Nightingale, “I will take your advice into consideration.”

Nightingale’s eyes flashed. “It was not advice.”

Gudako pulled her shoulders back and met the Berserker’s eyes. “Yes, it was, because that list of injuries you just gave me was from when he was alive, so therefore, everything you just told me to do will not be effective. We can only treat injuries from the present, not the past.”

“There has to be a way.” Her voice was still flat, but there was desperation in her eyes now, wild and furious, like a caged beast, begging to be let out.

“And if anyone can find it, you can. Thank you for this, Nightingale, come on Mordred.” She stepped out of the room, Mordred following, feeling very,  _ very  _ small. “Diarmuid, she’s ready for you. Mash I’ll need you to keep Nightingale in check. Morded,” her eyes met his, “we need to talk.”

She took him into the hallway, glancing up and down the corridor, making sure to check that there was no one there. Mordred opened his mouth to say something,  _ anything _ , but she started talking before he could. “First off, I would like to say that you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. Second off, I would like to say that what Morgana did to you was inexcusable, and if we encounter her in a Singularity, I will make sure you will be there to take her down. Third, I’m not going to take you off rotation, mainly because you need the fight, it’s how you cope, but also because you’re not on rotation yet so I can’t take you off.” She gave a wan smile, then continued. “Fourth, I want you to know you are hardly the only Heroic Spirit who has had problems like this. You may have been dead for a long time, but you're alive now, and problems from your past are going to surface, it’s inevitable. Finally, you're not alone. You have friends, and we care for you, no matter what happened or what you did. And we will be here for you when you’re ready to talk about it.”

“I  _ don’t  _ need your pity.” He spat it sharply, not in the mood to hold back. He wanted to lash out, to fight, to break  _ something _ .

She narrowed her eyes at him. “It’s not pity. I’m not looking down on you. This is me being pissed off at Morgana, angry at you for not telling me, and telling you that I am here for you, even if you refuse to accept it.”

“I -” he swallowed, his anger flickering out, because she was telling him that she  _ cared _ . Not pity, but something else. And he could feel the  _ goddamned  _ tears building up, trying to escape. He forced them down, “thank you.” His voice was  _ too  _ small,  _ too  _ quiet, and he  _ hated  _ it,  _ hated  _ it so goddamn  _ much _ . 

“Addendum,” She said, smiling, “It’s okay to cry. Second addendum, I am so, so sorry. I won’t pretend to know what you’ve been through, but you can always trust in me even if you can’t trust anyone else. Third addendum, is it okay if I give you a hug?” Mordred gave a short, half laugh and nodded, and she enfolded him in her arms, patting his back gently. He returned the hug, a bit awkwardly. It was nice . . . this friends thing, it was nice _. _ Even if he felt  _ vulnerable  _ and  _ angry  _ and  _ scared  _ all at once.

“I guess I can’t ask you to forget all that?”

“No, you can’t.” She sighed, “just remember that I am here for you. Both as friend and Master. Got it?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good.”

By the time Diarmuid got out, an ice pack held to his face and a bandage taped to his nose, Mordred felt better. He felt doubly better when Nightingale went all . . . well Nightingale on him as well. “It would be advisable,” she said, “to simply remove the mole. No mole, no curse, no curse, no sickness. However, many mole removers are either creams or lasers, neither of which can be proven to be one hundred percent safe. I suggest cutting it off with a heated up knife, this way his mole would no longer be there and the wound would be cauterized as well.”

“It’s a curse, not a sickness.” Gudako pointed out.

“It inflicts feelings upon people, false feelings that can make them act in extreme ways. That is a sickness, therefore it should be removed.” Her eyes flashed, “A band aid is an ineffectual preventative, it will be more effective to simply remove it. Hold still, I will get my knife and perform the treatment.”

“No, you won’t. His mole is useful in combat, yes Diarmuid, I know you don’t like using it, but you have to admit, it’s gotten us out of some scraps. We’re keeping it. Besides, Nightingale, you have one more patient to examine.” 

Chiron pushed Achilles forwards as Diarmuid slunk over to stand beside Mordred. Nightingale’s eyes lit up. Literally. “Wonderful, this patient has yet to visit the infirmary, which means a thorough examination will be in order. I will have to dissect you to discover the cause of your invulnerability, that way I can figure out how I can give it to others. A world where no one would get injured.” Her voice grew soft, a bit wistful, and Gudako coughed pointedly. “It wouldn’t kill him,” she said, a bit sullenly, “he’s immortal.” She turned towards the examination room, and when Achilles made to run, her hand jerked out, there was a loud, sharp pop. Achilles fell over, clutching his foot, cursing wildly. She turned back to him, pupils mere dots, the red of her eyes too large, slipping her gun back into her holster. “Patients should not run away. Now come, before I have to shoot your other foot.”

“Yes ma’am.” Achilles wheezed, standing up gingerly and following her into the room.

Chiron shook his head, “That boy, he never learns.” It was said fondly, like a father about his son, and Mordred’s throat closed up.

“Confidentiality?” Diarmuid whispered, raising one eyebrow in Mordred’s direction.

“Curse?” Mordred returned. He got the message and shut up, but Mordred wasn’t done. “Has anyone ever told her that she’s bat-shit  _ insane? _ ”

“All the time,” Mash said.

“Have they ever told her  _ she’s  _ the  _ sick  _ one?”

“I think,” Gudako said, “that everyone, even the most idiotic, is smart enough not to do that.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Escape from Nightingale, multiple Chulainns are met, Mordred gets conscripted into Spartan Training Servant Version, Morgana's excellent parenting continues, and Fuuma continues to be the best ninja.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Sorry for the delay, and I have slightly bad news, the next chapter is going to take a bit to write, but as a trade off, it's going to be even longer! Yay! Anywho, thank you all for your comments and kudos you all are the absolute best! I hope you enjoy this chapter and have a lovely day!
> 
> As always, potential triggers, nothing overly major, it's kind of a break chapter

By the time Achilles got out, Mordred was ready for the day to be  _ over _ . He’d remembered another Holy Grail War, fought a fake Lion King, saw something he had never wanted to see, gone through the most intense ski race ever, been examined by a nurse from hell, and had a small breakdown in front of Gudako. He was officially  _ done  _ with today. He zoned out as Nightingale listed how the exam went, what problems the Greek hero had, and what horrifying treatments that she recommended, as well as another plea to dissect him. Achilles face was white as a sheet, his foot encased in a boot, and Gudako finally took pity on them all and played red herring as Mash and Chiron escorted the three out of the room.

“Well,” Chiron said, voice gentle but firm, “I hope you all are proud of yourself.”

“She shot me.” Achilles complained.

He raised an eyebrow. “You know better than to run from a healer.”

“Here,” Mash said softly, “Let me take your coats.”

After a few more grumbles from Achilles, the three shed their gear, and Mordred realized belatedly that he was still in his pajamas. He didn’t care, he  _ couldn’t  _ care, he was too  _ tired  _ to care. Finally, Gudako stepped out of the infirmary. She too had discarded her cold weather gear somewhere, and the message on her sweatshirt was painfully clear. COMMON SENSE IS SO RARE THESE DAYS, IT SHOULD BE CLASSIFIED AS A SUPERPOWER. 

Mordred wondered, for the briefest of seconds, if she chose the shirts on purpose, because that message seemed  _ way  _ too apt to be coincidence.

“I would like to know,” she said, exhaustion lining her voice, “What the hell you were all thinking?”

Diarmuid pulled his shoulders back, any trace of shame dropping as if it had never been, ready to accept any punishment Gudako meted out. “We figured that we could show Mordred a good time without destroying half of Chaldea. One of the ways to do this was to go skiing.” He blinked, “technically, it is not illegal.”

She groaned and pinched her nose. “You are correct in one aspect, we can’t actually punish you because what you just did isn’t against the rules.” She dropped her hand, intertwined her fingers and pointed them at the three. “Did you consider that once we have gotten the foundation of humanity fixed, that Chaldea is going to become a controversial hot spot? Technically, we only own the property Chaldea is built on, not the forests below the tree line. That is protected property. Protected property you three just went through while on a skiing rampage, You didn’t destroy a lot, but there are damages. Which means we will be the focus of even more questioning.” She leveled her glare on the three of them, and Mordred watched as some of the blood drained from Diarmuid’s face. Honestly, he wasn’t feeling the greatest either. He hadn’t known a bit of skiing would have so many consequences.

He stepped forwards, “Gudako, the idea may have been Achilles’, but it was I who chose to break through most of the trees instead of going around.” 

Chiron looked at him, curiosity flashing in his brown eyes. He smiled, gently, something proud, something . . . fatherly.  _ Urgh _ , what was it with every one and their  _ stupid _ , prideful,  _ fatherly  _ smiles being directed at  _ him _ ? It made his throat close up and his stomach tie into knots. It made him think of what could have been and what he had lost. It made him sad and angry and so,  _ so  _ confused. “Thank you for the information Mordred, and thank you for being willing to live up to your mistake.”

Mordred nodded, swallowed, and stepped back, fists clenched.

“Thankfully,” Gudako continued, “We have a plethora of Caster’s in Chaldea, so we should be able to fix what damage you have wrought. So the only punishment you three will face is what has already been meted out.” She smiled, a tired thing, “In the future, please be more considerate of the consequences of your actions. There may not be any rules against something, but that doesn’t mean that it’s okay.” Finally, she nodded once, “That’s all, Achilles, Diarmuid, you’re dismissed. Mordred, you’re with me.” She grinned then, sudden and sharp, like a sunny break on a cloudy day, “It’s after lunch, so you know what that means.”

“Being examined by Nightingale was our punishment.” Mordred repeated as they went to go pick up his clothes. It seemed, on the surface, a stupid punishment, but every scrape of his had been cleaned and bandaged, and he had been mentally disassembled and put back together, and then all his physical flaws had been thrown out for Gudako to hear.  _ God _ , shenanigans were fine, but he was going to be on  _ Diarmuid’s  _ side if anyone  _ ever  _ suggested doing something that put them in  _ that  _ situation again.

“Yes,” Gudako said, rubbing her face.

Mash, who had chosen to tag along today, giggled. “She is very good at dissuading people from doing stupid stuff.”

“I can see that.” Mordred grumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets. Gudako had decided to let him change into proper clothing before this excursion.  _ Sure _ , the clothes were a day old and smelled like dry sweat, but they still beat pajamas. The exhaustion from earlier was ebbing away now, with the prospect of a new wardrobe ahead. It was a shame that his furniture wouldn’t be done until the next week or so. 

“Ah! Sempi, did you tell Mo-san about the shirt thing?” Mash leaned forwards slightly, her lips tilted up in a small grin.

“The shirt thing,” Mordred repeated, frowning slightly, “What shirt thing? Should I be worried?”

Gudako slapped her forehand. “Ohhh yeah, the shirt thing! Thank you Mash, I swear I would forget my own head without you there to remind me.” Mash blushed slightly, and Mordred restrained the urge to roll his eyes. If they managed to get Irisviel to court Father properly, he wasn’t sure how he would survive it, because just standing next to these two was  _ agonizing _ . “So,” Gudako continued, “tomorrow is official funny shirt day. Everyone has to wear one. Don’t worry, I normally end up picking out shirts for people, and I think you’ll like yours.” She grinned, and that grin  _ definitely  _ didn’t help with the worry thing. “Also,” She raised a hand, “The day after that is movie night.”

“Movie night.” Mordred said, blankly.

“Yes, movie night. You’ll get to choose, so after we get your clothes, we’ll take you to my room and make a selection. Sounds like a deal?”

“Sure,” Mordred said, because he really didn’t have a choice.

“Hai!” Mash said, a bit too eagerly.

“Finally, the last major thing we need to talk about is rotation. Normally, I tend to wait a week or so to allow people to get themselves settled. Is that okay with you, or . . .?” She trailed off, watching him.

He thought for a second, then shrugged. “I’ll have Diarmuid and Cu and Achilles to spar with, and I think Beowulf as well, so I should be fine. But I’ll let you know.” 

She flashed a grin. “Wonderful, now let's get some clothes!”

Mordred held up the t-shirt staring at it and it’s message. I’M NOT SHORT I’M JUST CONCENTRATED AWESOME. It wasn’t  _ overly  _ bad, but the letters were large and done in silver and red glitter, which kind of negated the effect the words had. “Do I  _ have  _ to wear this?”

Mash glanced at it, then giggled. “It’s actually relatively tame compared to what she normally gets. Just,” she giggled again, “You’ll see when you see Diarmuid’s.”

“Diarmuid loves his shirt.” Gudako complained from where she lay sprawled on Mordred’s bed. “He only acts like he doesn’t because he has a reputation to maintain.”

“Achilles got the short straw.” Mash whispered, still giggling softly.

“Achilles got the short straw because Chiron specifically requested that shirt, and like an idiot, I didn’t check to see what it said before he put the request in. Besides, it’s a funny shirt.” Gudako argued. “They all are. Nightingale loves hers.”

Mordred shuddered, “Let’s  _ not  _ talk about Nightingale.” Carefully, he folded his shirt up and placed it in the drawer. “What movies do you have to choose from?” 

Mash stifled her giggles, her small smile hid by her fist, and Gudako shot up, eyes wide, a grin stretching across her face, with all the eagerness of a hungry shark. “A whole lot. Trust me Mordred, you won’t be disappointed.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely positive?”

_ “Yes.” _

“Okay, if things go south, I’m blaming you.”

Dinner rolled around, and Mordred didn’t wait for Gudako or Mash. He dropped his controller, jumped over the couch, and  _ blasted  _ through the entertainment room and out the door, the growl of his stomach left in his wake. He felt vaguely bad for leaving Gudako and Mash behind, but the Archer they’d been playing with, Tomoe, had been winning anyway so he wasn’t really concerned with his tactical retreat. 

Also, he’d missed both breakfast  _ and  _ lunch, so he was  _ starving _ .

By some miracle, he was the first hungry Servant there, the only others being cooking staff and robots. He ran to the buffet, grabbed a plate, and started loading up on literally  _ everything _ . The doors were opening now, the people trickling in. Mordred ignored them, finished constructing his leaning tower of delectables, and started searching for a place to sit. People weren’t sitting down yet, milling around in little circles, talking and getting food. Fuck it. Mordred sat down at a random table and started shoveling food as fast as possible down his gullet. 

People swirled around him, he could hear snippets of their conversations. Surprisingly, unlike yesterday, there weren’t a lot directed at him. Three days later, and the novelty of a new Servant in Chaldea had already worn off. He was slightly miffed. He would have expected it to be a bigger deal, for  _ him  _ to be a bigger deal, he was  _ Mordred Pendragon  _ after all. But somehow, the anonymity was kind of nice. No one expected him to do anything else but help Gudako save the world. No one judging him for how he acted, or anything like that. He had the freedom to be himself, which he did anyway regardless of whether he was supposed to or not, but  _ still _ .

He shook his head, and turned back to the very important job of stuffing his face.

“Oi, Mordred! Thought Gudako wouldn’t have let you out yet!” It was Cu’s voice, loud and cheerful, and Mordred looked up to see him pushing his way through the crowds with a plate of food.

Mordred looked at the table, then looked around. No white haired Archer in sight. “I thought you’d be sitting with Emiya.”

Cu shrugged and sat down across from him, waving his fork around. “Emiya and the rest of the kitchen crew are working on desserts.” His eyes glowed happily, “It’s cake night.”

“Cake night?” That sounded good.

“Cake night,” Cu agreed, taking a bite of his food. “So, how did whatever go?” 

Mordred scowled at him, “Oh, the skiing went great. The consequences less so. We got handed over to Nightingale.”

Cu winced, “Now I am very, very happy I didn’t go.”

Mordred added a glare to his scowl.

Cu just grinned, “Hey, you’re the one who kicked down our door. You got what was coming to you.”

“What the fuck ever.” Mordred grumbled back, returning determinately to his food.

Cu tapped his fork against his plate, “Warning, goon squad incoming.”

_ Huh? _

“Oi, that’s not nice.”

“What the hell does that make you, slightly older brat?” Plates hit the table, and Mordred looked up just in time to see . . .  _ no _ , this was  _ impossible _ , this  _ wasn't  _ possible. His eyes  _ had  _ to be deceiving him somehow. Except there were four Arthurs which meant . . . theoretically, there could be more than one Cu. Which was what he was seeing. Possibly. “You’re in Alter’s spot,” said the Cu who’d sat beside him. The one who looked . . . older, tireder, with longer, paler hair that reached past his waist. 

The other Cu that had sat beside Cu, a bit younger, rougher looking with slightly darker hair that had to be a couple inches shorter then actual Cu’s hair, pointed at older Cu. “Please, as if Alter will care. You know he only eats with us because we push him too.”

“Nope, nope nope nope,” Mordred muttered, resolutely turning back to his food. “I’m  _ not  _ dealing with this  _ shit  _ today.”

“Oh yes,” Cu, the real (?) Cu, said, “I haven’t introduced you to the copies, have I? This,” he slapped the back of younger Cu’s head, “brat here is Proto. That,” he pointed to older Cu, “decrepit old fossil is CasCu. And that,” he pointed a finger past Mordred, and over the protests of the others, he said, “is goth dino me, Alter.”

Mordred turned to look, then tilted his head up. And up. Cu hadn’t been kidding. Alter was a goth, dinosaur version of Cu, who was now looking down at him with dimly glowing red eyes, a plate of food balanced precariously in one hand. “That is my spot.” He said, his voice deep and gravelly, oddly flat for someone who was supposed to be Cu.

Mordred looked at his plate, then looked back at Alter. “You’ll have to fight me for it.”

“Hmm,” a low growl, and Mordred bared his teeth at him, clenching his fork tighter, ready to stab if needed. Then Alter moved, not to force him out of the seat, but to sit on the other side of him, a giant, spiny mass of muscle and chitinous armor. “A seat isn’t worth a fight.”

Mordred, feeling for some reason as if he had just dodged a bullet, turned back to his meal and began to eat. Around him, the conversation uncurled, and Mordred quickly realized that, where Diarmuid was the person of common sense for the Chaos Crew, Alter, for all his growly voice and intimidating look, was the peacemaker for this group.

It started with Cu. “You’re on rotation tomorrow, right Proto?” It was a normal enough question, in a normal enough tone, but suddenly Mordred’s instincts were screaming at him to get the hell out of dodge.

Which he didn’t,  _ of course. _

Proto nodded eagerly, “Yep.”

“Oh yes,” CasCu said, too innocently. “Do tell us how the date goes.”

Proto flushed, “It’s not a date,” his voice was forcefully calm, with the slightest hint of a growl.

CasCu raised a single eyebrow. “Sure it isn’t.”

“Oi,” Cu interrupted, “Who is this maybe, maybe-not date with? I haven’t heard a name yet.”

CasCu smirked, “It’s wi -”

“NO ONE!” Proto shouted, leaping out of his seat. He glanced around, sat back down, ducked his head, lowered his voice, and glared at his other selves. “It is with no one because there is no date. It’s a farming run. You know, fighting. Not. A. Date.” He stabbed his food with his fork a bit viciously on the last part, emphasizing the words.

“Sure it isn’t.” CasCu said blankly.

“Still want to know who the date would be with if there was a date,” Cu said. 

Proto went red again. “There is no one. And it isn’t a date.” This time the growl was more prominent, his red eyes flashing dangerously. 

CasCu opened his mouth, but Alter interrupted him with a deep rumble, “Enough.” The three other Cu’s immediately switched to another topic. 

Mordred took a break from his food to mime gagging at Alter. Alter looked at him for a few seconds, then nodded slowly in agreement.  _ Finally _ , an ally! Romance was stupid, fighting was better. He turned to his plate, scraped off the last bits of food, chewed, and swallowed, slamming the plate down and standing up. “I’m off. See ya.”

There was a chorus of goodbyes, except from Alter, who merely grumbled, and Mordred left, plate gripped in his hand. He had refills to grab and a Berserker to find.

Beowulf was not sitting by himself, there was another man sitting with him, red hair, red eyes, red tattoos, and to Mordred’s  _ considerable  _ surprise, Martha was with them as well. The red haired man had sheets of paper in front of him, and he looked to be writing, well not writing, counting? Mathematics? “The training rooms,” he said, “are not big enough for what we have in plan. To fit even one third of the staff into one room with enough space between them to train would take something akin to the makeshift theater.”

“Hmm,” Martha said, “You’re looking a little too large, Leonidas. The training sessions have hardly gained that much attention. Still . . .” She trailed off, a little bit of excitement flashed in her eyes before being tucked away, “What if we split them up by groups? That way we could still be able to use the training rooms.”

“I could see that,” Beowulf muttered, “Leonidas?”

Leonidas looked down at his papers. “Give me a few seconds.” He returned to them, pencil flying, tongue sticking out slightly in concentration.

Mordred, with a new full plate and a need for a place to sit down, decided it would be a good time as any to interrupt. He sat down, started jamming food into his mouth, then said. “I thought you didn’t do fight clubs, Martha.”

Her eyes flashed briefly, then she coughed delicately and said, “This isn’t a fight club. We have been teaching the people of Chaldea self defense.”

“Making them into proper Spartan warriors.” Leonidas mumbled, tapping the pencil to the side of his head briefly before returning to calculating.

“Only recently,” Beowulf said, stabbing his steak cheerfully, “we’ve had an influx of people interested in the program, so we’re trying to rearrange stuff.”

Well then. Mordred shoved another forkful of food into his mouth and said, “So what types of stuff do you do?”

“Leonidas oversees a proper Spartan training regime,” Martha stated, her lips lifting slightly before she clamped them back down. “Beowulf and I teach hand to hand combat classes, with Chiron occasionally giving a helping hand.”

“ _ You _ , teach hand to hand? No way.”

Martha shrugged slightly, but her ears were burning. “I do.”

“She’s lying.” Mordred said, “she shoots lasers, she doesn’t teach hand to hand. She shoots  _ lasers _ .” 

“I’m a saint,” she said sharply, “I don’t lie.” She raised a hand to her mouth, coughed slightly, face flaming. “Which is to say that the truth is very important, and obviously, I would never muddle it on a topic such as this.”

Oh yes, he’d almost forgotten how much trouble she had with keeping her saint facade up. She liked a fight as much as Mordred did, yeah, she didn’t  _ show  _ it, but she still wore a happy little smile while beating up things. She just tried to hide it. Most often not successfully.

“She’s not,” Beowulf affirmed, “She’s actually very good. Some kind of angel fighting technique. Beat me up once.”

Mordred brightened. “Really, she did?”

Martha hissed slightly, “Let us not talk about that incident, Beowulf.” Her words were slightly strangled, and Beowulf and Mordred exchanged grins.

“So, small Saber,” Beowulf said, cheerfully, “What brings you here?”

“Oh yeah,” he’d almost forgotten, “Just here to tell you that our duel isn’t finished.”

“Our duel . . .” He trailed off, then his eyes widened, “Oh ho ho, so you remember now, huh?” He grinned, wide and violent and as bloodthirsty as the one currently crossing Mordred’s own face. “There is nothing to finish. I killed you.”

“No, you didn’t.” Mordred grinned wider, “You broke most of the bones in my body, but you didn’t kill me, just knocked me out for a bit. And then you went and got your puny bitch ass kicked by Cu. I  _ won  _ that Holy Grail War. The duel was never finished. So, you owe me a spar. And I  _ will  _ get my spar.”

Leonidus looked up, “Is this true, Beowulf?” He turned his gaze to Mordred. “You don’t look like you could stand up to his noble phantasm. Not enough muscle.”

“ _ Hey!  _ Ya wanna go? I’m the  _ toughest  _ Knight of the Round Table,” except for Gawain, but Gawain wasn’t there so he didn’t count, “I can take  _ anything  _ you can dis out!”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re too skinny. Survive three sessions of my Spartan training regimen, the one I designed for Servants, and I’ll believe your claim.”

Mordred bared his teeth at him, “You’re on.”

“This,” Martha said, so quietly Mordred knew she hadn’t meant for them to overhear, “Should be interesting.”

_ The golem is still, the rock barely dented, the crystal eyes dull. Mordred’s sword lies in a dozen pieces, nothing but ineffectual shards of metal glinting faintly in the darkness. He lies by the door, barely breathing, blood clinging to his skin, arms broken, knuckles bloody, vision fuzzy. The golem stands there, waiting for him to get up. _

_ He doesn’t.  _

_ He does not have the strength. _

_ Eventually, Mother opens the door. Her sigh is soft, disappointed, and some part of Mordred feels broken and jagged at the sound, some part of him knows this is wrong, even if he doesn’t know what is wrong with it.  _

_ “Mordred,” she says, and her voice is like venom, “Even the weakest of knights would have destroyed such a creature by now. You do want to be a knight, don’t you?”  _

_ He wants to ask what is a knight, she speaks about them often, but Mordred has never seen one. This dream of knighthood is not his, it is hers, and he doubts it is knighthood she truly wishes of him. But he does not ask, he is too much pain, and even if he did, she would not tell beyond tantalizing hints. _

_ She touches his forehead, pushing his bloody hair from his face, a motherly touch, but pain follows, excruciating as his body is stitched back together. She presses something into his hand, he hopes it is food or possibly a water skin, it feels more like a new blade. “Don’t be weak, my child. Do this. Destroy it. Prove your strength.” _

_ She leaves, the door closes, the golem is still and waiting.  _

_ Even the weakest of knights, she had said, but Mordred has barely made a scratch. Don’t be weak, she had said, but he cannot move and there are tears leaking from his eyes. He is hurt despite the healing, hunger gnaws at his stomach, his throat is dry and parched. He wants to run to Mother, to hide himself, to be held in her arms and protected, to hear her say, “Of course I didn’t mean it. Here is your supper, Mordred, here, I love you so much, my son.” But she won’t because she is a knife hidden by silk only when required of her. _

_ And she does not need that silk around Mordred. _

_ Weak, she had said. Was this what he was? Weak? He does not like the word, the way it sounded in her mouth, the way it echoes in his mind. He is weak, and it got him nowhere. He is weak, so no supper. He is weak, so very weak. He does not want to be weak, because he thinks, just maybe, that Mother will use his weakness against him. Has she not already done so many times before? _

_ He pushes himself up, trembling with the effort. The weakest of knights would have taken down this golem by now. He does not know what a knight is, he does not know what it means to be strong, but he knows the price of being weak. So he will not be weak. He will be strong. He lifts his sword, shaking, swaying, and snarls as viciously as he can, even if it sounds like a whimper. “I am Mordred Le Fay and I am stronger than you.” _

Mordred woke with a gasp, sweat sticking to his limbs, breath shaking in his throat. For a while, he wrestled with the  _ need  _ to fight, the  _ need  _ to lash out, before he managed to smother it. Less than last night, the ache for destruction this time around wasn’t as bad. He looked at the time, he’d been sleeping for thirty minutes.

He knew he would not sleep again.

He took a shower, washing the sweat and the memories of his past from his mind and body. He got dressed, hair still damp, strands clinging to his face. He did not put on his ‘funny’ shirt, he would leave it for later. For now, he needed to get rid of the restlessness, the need to do something to prove that he wasn’t vulnerable and soft.  _ Weak _ . 

Fuuma was already entering the simulation room when Mordred reached it, dressed in a hoodie and jeans, his hood pulled low over his face. He tilted his head at Mordred’s approach, but waited for the Saber to go inside before slipping in himself. “So,” Mordred said, before things could get awkward, “What simulation do you normally run?”

Fumma shrugged slightly, “I . . . ah . . . whatever will clear my mind . . . ah . . . skirmish scenarios, mostly. Things that will help me improve my skills.”

Mordred stared at him. “You’re a Servant. Aren’t skills just, I don’t know, stuck?”

“ . . . training is important,” he said the words quietly, and the way he fiddled with his hoodie made him look embarrassed.

Mordred snorted, “Whatever.” He didn’t say it harshly, the word came out automatically, a gentle reply for something he didn’t agree with. Fuuma had given him the room yesterday, had added his strength with him against the fake Lion King, and understood what it was like to have nightmares. It was hard to be angry with him, and he wasn’t angry tonight, just . . .  _ restless _ . “Load something. I don’t know, something good.”

“Not the Lion King?”

He swallowed, “No.”

“Hai,” a few seconds later, the world around them was shifting. A forest of some kind, trees reaching high above their heads, fragments of the blue sky showing through the canopy. Leaves crunched underfoot, bird song filtered through the air. Fuuma glanced at Mordred, nodded once, then disappeared. Mordred summoned his armor, got ready.

The birdsong cut out.

It was the only warning, besides his own instincts, that he got. Things leapt from the underbrush, crashing through branches from above. They were distorted and furry and had gleaming teeth and claws, and Mordred met one head on, Clarent whistling as it cut through the air. The thing howled in pain, others lunged, and Mordred twisted, Carent swinging in a wild defense, red lightning jumping off his armor as he fought. The one he had struck gave a short scream as a burst of flame leapt from the ground and consumed him. Mordred slammed his elbow into a beast's chest, it stumbled back, coughing, Clarent cleaved through the neck of another.

This was simple work, a mindless battle, his opponents neither especially strong or particularly clever, with just enough of a mix up to make it engaging. Just what he needed, something that allowed him to prove his strength without getting worked up, something he didn’t have to think about, something . . . relaxing. He guessed it said a lot about him that he found fighting, or a fight like this, relaxing, but he had never been able to stay still for long. Always moving, always doing  _ something _ . Just  _ another  _ one of his multitude of  _ problems _ . 

But this mindless grind did allow him to do one thing important, and that was to take note of Fuuma’s strength. He hadn’t been able to last night, with the rage eating at his insides and the need for a proper fight blinding his sight. Fuuma, he realized, was like Bedivere in a way, prioritizing skill over strength. He wasn’t, if Mordred was judging this right, a powerful Heroic Spirit, but he knew his strengths and he knew his weaknesses, and most importantly, he knew the flow of battle and how to help his allies. So dangerous, perhaps not overly so by himself, but that was expected of an Assassin. He was versatile too, switching from weapon to weapon with ease, slipping from attack to support like it was nothing. It was useful, and Mordred couldn’t help but think that he wouldn’t mind fighting with him on a real battlefield.

The simulation ended, and Mordred looked at the small boy, “Again?”

“Again.” He confirmed, his voice calmer, business like.

Mordred wondered if that confidence was a mask, or if the shyness from earlier was the mask instead.

He decided that he didn’t care.

Mordred moved to one of the other training rooms in the early hours of the morning. There weren’t many awake yet, but this was the time Leonidas had said to arrive. The Spartan was already there, and so, to his surprise, were Beowulf and Martha, both dressed in gym clothes. They nodded at Mordred, then the two tapped their fists together, then they were a blur of motion, punches and kicks, two forces colliding. Mordred was tempted to watch, but Leonidas shouted for his attention, voice loud and boisterous. “SPARTAN TRAINEE, YOU HAVE WON YOUR FIRST BATTLE BY DECIDING TO GO THROUGH WITH THIS!!!”

“I’m British.” Mordred said into the resounding silence of his yell.

Leonidas glared at him. “This is Sparta! And in my training session, you will prove yourself worthy to be called Spartan! Now, first, the warm up, one hundred laps through this building. BEGAN!”

Mordred decided very quickly that Leonidas was one of the _worst_ people in the world. He didn’t come close to Morgana or Assassin of Red, but he sure as _hell_ tried too. The first thing that he did after his one hundred laps was twenty _thousand_ push ups. It was _horrible_ , because Leonidas actually had to teach him how to do the push up. How the _hell_ was he supposed to know how to do a push up? Morgana had just given him a sword and thrown him into a room until he could destroy the golem, then she’d moved on to more dangerous advisories. This was _completely_ different! 

Perhaps Fuuma had a point about training.

The torture continued, but for some reason, Mordred found himself . . . not enjoying it, but not hating it either as time went on. Leonidas was patient with his mistakes, even if Mordred wasn’t overly patient with himself. He was ruthless, yes, but supportive all the same, and when Mordred collapsed after his last set of . . .  _ hell _ , he didn’t even know the  _ name _ , Leonidas slapped him on the back and gently led him through stretches and told him what would work on sore muscles. Then, in a  _ way  _ too cheerful tone of voice, he told Mordred to meet him there at the same time tomorrow.

Mordred debated killing him.

In the end, he just dragged himself to his room, took a long shower, put on his funny shirt, and made his way, slowly, painfully, to breakfast. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Funny Shirt Day, Servants v Modern Tech, Mission: Get Irisviel and Artoria Together begins, Diarmuid and Mordred have a spar, and Mordred has another flashback.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! First off, thank you all for your comments and kudos, they mean the world to me. Secondly, here's the next chapter and I hope you have a wonderful day!
> 
> As always potential trigger warning.
> 
> Also, I'm afraid I might have spent more time looking at funny shirts then writing this. It's a rabbit hole, I'm telling you.

Mordred wasn’t sure how Leonidas had managed it, but he was _almost_ too exhausted to eat his food. His only reprieve was watching the other Servant’s and their shirts. _Truly_ , it was an honor. He couldn’t read all of the messages, Mordred had never been the best at reading, and he only caught glimpses of the shirts, which didn’t make it any easier. CasCu, with THOUGHT and OLD and LONGER. Emiya, with DREAMED and COOKING MOM and a very tired look on his face. It was a mishmash of stuff, and most people either looked like they were dying of laughter or wanted to hide in their rooms from embarrassment.

Mordred noted, with some tired amusement, that not even the Chaldean Staff were exempt from Gudako’s funny shirt day.

 _“Oi, Mordred.”_ Cu’s voice, in his mind, cheerful and eager. _“We’re meeting after breakfast in office number 65. Do you think you’ll be able to find it?”_

 _“Yeah,”_ he replied, _“Should be able too. Hey, what does Emiya’s shirt say? I wasn’t able to read it from here.”_

_“Where are you?”_

_“The corner.”_ He’d wanted, for the briefest of moments, a bit of peace and quiet, a bit of time to regain his energy before meeting up with the gang. 

_“Seriously?! Want to sit with us?”_

_“Nah, I’m good. What does it say?”_

He could hear Cu’s grin in his mind, could imagine it stretching across his face as Emiya stared at him _“It says,”_ a snort of delighted laughter, _“I never dreamed I would grow up to be a super cool cooking mom but here I am killing it.”_ He burst into laughter, managed to send out one last desperate message. _“He looks so good in it too!”_

Mordred rolled his eyes skywards and decided to abort the mission before Cu started to wax poetic about Emiya’s looks or some shit along that line. _“Hey, Diarmuid,”_ he sent, scraping up a bit of scrambled eggs onto his spoon, _“Why are we meeting in one of the offices?”_ He would have expected them to be saved for the Chaldea staff. 

_“We have to talk.”_ Diarmuid sent back, his voice grave.

Mordred remembered the look Diarmuid had sent him after hearing about Morgana’s training, his curiosity after the confidentiality thing with Nightingale. _“Sounds ominous.”_

 _“We’re meeting with Irisviel.”_ He elaborated.

Oh, that explained things. For a second, his grip tightened on his fork, then with a deep breath, he loosened it. _Not_ now, _not_ today. He would make it through one day at a time, he would look forward to a future where Father was always smiling, _always_ happy, and take pride that he had managed to bring that into fruition, even if Father didn’t care about him. _“Cool,”_ he sent back, forcing his breakfast down his throat, even if he felt like anything but eating, _“I’ll meet you there.”_

Mordred found Diarmuid in Office 65. The door was open, inviting, the room was lit, and the Lancer was standing, staring at a board dominating one wall in obvious confusion. “Mornin’,” Mordred said, walking in and throwing himself as gently as possible into one of the many chairs, “What’s up?”

“I could have sworn that this was the room with the white board. Obviously, I was mistaken.” He turned, “Good morning Mordred.”

Modred took one good look at his shirt and burst out laughing. It was _bad_ , it was _terribly_ bad, and by the look on Diarmuid’s face, he knew how bad it was. SHENANIGATOR: A PERSON WHO INSTIGATES SHENANIGANS was written in bold black letters across the bright green cloth. It was horrible, and wonderfully on point, and the put upon expression on Diarmuid’s face was the icing on the cake.

He laughed so hard his chair fell over.

Which felt _great_ on his sore muscles, but he no longer cared.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Diarmuid said, “but at least mine isn’t written in glitter.”

He kind of had a point. Mordred, reluctantly, smothered his laughter, and got back up, placing the chair precariously on its legs. He sat back down, watched as Diarmuid turned back to the board and stared at it. “So, if it’s not a white board, what is it?”

“I have no clue.” Diarmuid said.

“It’s a smartboard,” Achilles said, entering the room, “Chiron’s been on a modern teaching strategies kick, and me and Herc got subjected to a whole lesson about them.” He sighed and ran a hand over his hair, “Go ahead, you have permission to laugh.”

“I was going to anyway.” Mordred snorted. “But just because you said so,” he threw back his head and let the full brunt of his laughter out. Mash had been right, Achilles really had gotten the short end of the stick with his bright orange shirt that read, I BELIEVED I COULD SO I DID THEN CHIRON GAVE ME A TIME OUT in big black letters. “You look even more like a carrot now!” Achilles made a face, and Mordred _howled_.

The chair fell over again.

Achilles groaned, “Yeah yeah, your shirt isn’t overly great either. Move over Diar, I know the basics, I should be able to get this thing up and running.” He stepped over, sat down at the desk with the computer. “Power button should be on the side of the board somewhere.”

“We could always move to another room,” said Cu cheerfully, stepping in with a covered plate of something. Irisviel followed him, glancing around the room curiously. Mordred took one look at their shirts, and any thought of getting up was vanquished immediately. Cu’s said A DAY WITHOUT FISHING PROBABLY WON’T KILL ME BUT WHY TAKE THE CHANCE? Irisviel’s shirt was a bit more tame, I’M A CIVIL ENGINEER UNLESS YOU’RE REALLY IRRITATING. 

He burst into laughter again.

God, this was making his ribs _hurt_.

“Is Mordred okay?” Irisviel asked.

“Ignore him,” Achilles grumbled, squinting at the screen, “He’s getting it out of his system.”

“We can’t move to another room,” Diarmuid said, reaching up to feel around the board, “you have to rent them. I barely got permission from Gudao to use this one. We’re going to be walking on eggshells for a while.”

“You guys are,” Cu said, plopping into a seat, “I’m not.”

“Yes,” Irisviel murmured, sliding into her own seat, “have you thanked Emiya for that yet?”

“Of course I have.”

That was enough to snap Mordred out of his remaining chortles. “Please don’t remind me.” He moaned, pushing himself off the floor and righting his chair once again. 

“Aha,” Diarmuid said, the board flickered on, a blue screen was revealed. “Ah . . . what next?”

“I have to hook it up to my end,” Achilles said, the “I think,” was said considerably softer.

Diarmuid paused, “I think? You do know how this works, don’t you?”

Achilles coughed, “I might have fallen asleep in the middle of the lecture. Herc might know.”

“I doubt Hercules would be able to fit into this room,” Diarmuid shot back, “Is there an instruction manual somewhere?”

“Probably?”

Mordred tuned them out, because he sure as _hell_ didn’t know how to operate a Smartboard. He turned to Cu and pointed at the covered plate. “What’s that.”

Cu started to unwrap it, “Emiya made cookies. If we hurry, we might be able to eat them all before Achilles and Diarmuid get to them,” he whispered.

Irisviel giggled softly and took two, “I’ll need to save some for Artoria, she loves Emiya’s cooking.”

Mordred snatched one and stuffed it into his mouth. Instant bliss. How was this possible? His appetite, which had lain dormant all through breakfast, flared up suddenly. “I forgive you for not locking your door.” He muttered, then grabbed two more and shoved them into his mouth. He’d died and gone to Heaven, that was the only explanation.

“Save some for the rest of us,” Cu hissed, snatching one for himself.

“Well, if somebody hadn’t fallen asleep when Chiron was teaching them -”

“Well, if somebody hadn’t rented the wrong room -”

“You would think that you would know better than to doze -”

“Oh yeah, well if you had checked the room numbers -”

“I didn’t see you doing anything to -”

Irisviel tilted her head, tucking a few cookies away into a napkin, “Should we stop them?”

Mordred watched Achilles and Diarmuid argue back and forth with wide eyes. The smartboard had gone from a blue screen to a grey one, with little dots and a blinking cursor. He shoved a couple more cookies into his maw. “ _Hell_ no, this is just getting good.” He’d sparred with Achilles, fought against Cu, he hadn’t yet seen what Diarmuid could do beyond that one farming run. He kinda wanted to watch the Lancer break and punch Achilles in the face.

Cu chuckled, “Yeah, they haven’t had a good spar with each other in a while, let them blow off some steam.”

“Okay,” Irisviel said, “but if they end up fighting in here, Gudao is not going to be happy.” 

Cu shrugged, Mordred shifted awkwardly. She had a point, and where Cu had a bit of leeway, Mordred, Achilles, and Diarmuid certainly did _not_. “They won’t get into an actual fight over a smart board, well, Diarmuid won’t.” Probably.

Cu snorted.

“Anyway,” Irisviel said, nibbling on a cookie, “Mordred, have you had a good few first days here at Chaldea?”

Mordred nearly fell out of his chair again. Was he hearing things right? Was Irisviel, the woman who was in love with his _Father_ , actually asking how his stay had been? As if she _cared_ ? It felt . . . weird. _Wrong_. “Eh? Why?”

“Well,” Irisviel said, “if this works, then I’ll be courting your Father, which means that I’ll be your Mother. Step-Mother.”

His head was swimming, because the words that were coming out of her mouth _weren’t_ making sense. Sure, the whole thing about courting Father meaning she was his step-mom made sense, but that _didn’t_ explain why she was asking. Mothers _didn’t_ care about their kids. Mothers _didn’t_ ask how their day went. Mothers fed poisoned food, tossed their children into rooms with monsters, molded them into instruments of their revenge. Mothers tore their children apart to put them back together in ways that shaped their needs. Mothers were _horrible_ things, _monsters_ made of magic and manipulations, and they _didn’t care_ about their children. Not truly. “And your point is?”

“Well,” Irisviel said, flicking her hair over her shoulder and watching in befuddled amusement as Achilles started tapping the smartboard as if that would somehow make it work. “If I do become your step-mother, then I want to get to know you better.” She turned and smiled at him, soft and nice and welcoming, “after all, you will be my son.”

Mordred stopped breathing.

Panic rose, and anger too, because this woman, with her white hair and red eyes, this _homunculus_ bred for nothing but _war_ , who _loved_ his father and was trying to win her heart, had just _acknowledged_ what Father had tried so desperately _not_ too. She’d called him _son_ , so readily accepted him despite it all, and it _hurt_ because it showed that it could be done. If Irisviel, a stranger, could acknowledge the connection, if _Kairi_ , a stranger, could _care_ , then couldn’t Father? So why . . . _why_. . .

_“Don’t.”_

She blinked, “I’m sorry?”

He glared at the floor, teeth gritted, “ _Don’t_ call me son, you don’t want to be my mother.” He _didn’t_ need another mother, one was _more_ than enough.

“I -”

“There!” Achilles shouted, thank god, because Mordred had been so _close_ to blowing up. So, _so_ close. He thought he hadn’t the strength for it, but apparently the thought had been wrong, because the thought of Father not _caring_ had dredged up that old, familiar rage till it battered at his insides, and the word _mother_ had sent fear and hatred coursing like fire through his veins. “Got it!”

Diarmuid stepped back, breathed deeply through his nose, then sighed. “Miraculously.”

“HEY!”  
Mordred jerked his gaze away from the floor, away from Irisviel’s shocked face, away from Cu’s worried, startled look, and towards the now white board. Diarmuid was holding something in his hand, writing across the top of the screen. “Very well,” he said, and Mordred forced himself to focus on the words, not the surging anger, not the swirling panic and hatred, “Our first meeting of Mission: Get Irisviel and Artoria Together begins now.”

Cu raised a hand, “I feel like the name should be shorter.”

Diarmuid sighed heavily, “If you can think of a better one, please speak up.” A brief moment of silence, then he continued, “So, ideas, who wants to begin?”

This time there was a long period of silence.

Then Mordred raised his hand and asked, “How do people actually get into relationships? Like, seriously, how?”

Another pause in which everyone turned to Cu and stared at him. He raised his hands defensively and said, “Nope, don’t look at me. You do not want to do what me and Emiya did.”

“You’re the only one out of any of us who's in a stable relationship at the moment.” Diarmuid pointed out.

“No.” Cu said, “No, no, no, no, no.”

“Come on,” Achilles said, crossing his arms in a vain attempt to look less carrotish. “It can’t be that bad,” he paused, squinted, “Are those cookies?”

“Cu,” Diarmuid said in a suddenly cold voice, “You didn’t bring cookies without telling me, did you?” Were his eyes glowing? They looked like they were glowing.

Cu glanced around fearfully, “Mordred ate most of them.”

Mordred smirked, “And they tasted wonderful too.”

Diarmuid didn’t growl, not really, but he did make a low sound, deep in his throat, and in a blur of movement, the plate of cookies, only three remaining, was in his hands and he was shoving the first into his mouth. Achilles lunged for one, but Diarmuid stepped nimbly out of the way. “Mine.”

“Hey! You can’t just monopolize the cookies!”

“Well, if you hadn’t slept through Chiron’s lecture, then I’m sure you might have managed to grab one.”

“Why you - give me!”

“No.”

“Children, children!” Irisviel called, standing and clapping her hands together sharply. “As much as it pleases me to see that Emiya’s cooking is so well received, lets not start a fight over it. Cu,” she turned and smiled at him, “you were saying?”

Cu threw his hands up, “Fine! You asked for it! Because of Gae Bolg, we kept on getting summoned into the same Holy Grail War, and we kept on fighting each other until, you know, we kinda started seeing the good parts of each other? Anyway, long story short, I confessed by kissing him while I was dying. I do not recommend it. He was not happy with me.”

 _“Seriously?”_ Mordred said.

“I told you that I was a bad role model.” He pointed a finger at Irisviel, “besides, weren’t you married? Shouldn’t you know how to do this?”

Irisviel sighed, sitting back down in one elegant movement. “That was a different version of me. And even then the circumstances were . . . something. Kiristigu taught me to live, and he was handsome and kind, but what I felt for him is different than what I feel for Artoria. With Kiristigu, I learned to make do with the time I had, but I also learned to be ready to give up when the time required it. But Artoria,” she smiled, soft and gentle, “she swore to keep me safe, not for a moment, but for forever. For her, I truly wanted to fight for my life, to truly live, not just experience a gilded cage until it was my time to be sacrificed. She made me yearn for what could be, made me push beyond my set limits. So I want to do this properly, for her, and for me.”

“That’s so sweet,” Achilles said, grinning.

“Okay,” Diarmuid said, smiling, and Mordred, _fuck_ , was he smiling too? _Shit_. He wiped it away, tried to put a blank face on. But Achilles was right, it was sickeningly sweet, and Mordred had trouble staying angry at her. He could see it in her face, she truly loved Father, it wasn’t some sappy, crush thing, it was something different, deeper, more lasting. Mordred was torn between being happy and being angry that there was a good chance that Father cared about her too. “Okay,” Diarmuid repeated, “We don’t listen to Cu.” He turned to Achilles, “Do you have any ideas?”

Achilles shrugged. “Sweep her off her feet, take her to the bedchamber, have a great time? That’s how me and Patroclus got started.”

And all at once, that disgusting sweetness was gone. Mordred leapt to his feet, ignoring his protesting muscles, jabbing a finger in Achilles direction. “That’s my _father_ ! If it’s _anyone_ who would be doing the sweeping off the feet, it would be _her_!”

“Except Artoria is still learning how not to be closed off, so I doubt she’ll be doing the sweeping anytime soon.” Diarmuid said, he sighed, stared at the white board. “We’ll put Achilles’ idea away for now, it’s not horribly bad, but it's not good either. I guess that leaves me,” he frowned, tapping the writing implement thingy against his band-aid, “For obvious reasons, I probably should be excluded as well.” His face darkened a bit, “I . . . am not the best for something like this.”

“So what you’re telling me,” Cu drawled, “is that we have a big fat zero.”

“Yep.” Mordred said, sitting back down, wincing at the soreness in his legs. He thought of tomorrow morning, wondered if he could make an excuse not to attend. Probably not, he was pretty sure Leonidas would find him and drag him there and then the training would be worse. _Stupid_ Spartan training regimen.

“What if,” Irisviel started, then trailed off, then started again, “When is Artoria’s birthday? I don’t think she’s ever mentioned it.”

“October 14,” Mordred said, immediately. Everyone turned to look at him. “What?”

“Moving on,” Diarmuid said, a bit quickly, “what were you saying?”

“Well,” Irisviel’s already pale face had gone a bit paler, “that’s a bit closer than I was expecting, but still . . . what if we threw her a birthday party?”

“And you told her then?”

Irisviel blushed slightly, “Yes, that was what I was thinking.”

“It’s better than Achilles’ idea.” Diarmuid turned and wrote ‘birthday confession’ on the board. “Any other ideas?”

“I still like my idea.” Achilles said.

Diarmuid sighed heavily, and wrote ‘sweep off feet then bedchamber’ on the board. “Anything else?”

Mordred leaned his head back and tried to think about courting. He really, _really_ didn’t want to, but if he was going to do this . . . “uh, is Merlin here? Because . . . actually, forget it, he would be a horrible person to pull in on this.” 

“He’s not,” Achilles said.

“I _said_ forget it.”

“Flowers,” Diarmuid said, “Isn’t there like a flower language? You could make bouquets and give them to her with flowers that symbolize your love.”

“Food.” Cu threw out, “Cook for her. You’ll have her eating out of your palm in no time.”

“That’s my _father_.” Mordred growled at him.

Cu ignored him.

Irisviel sighed and stared at the whiteboard as Diarmuid wrote ‘flowers’ and ‘food’. “I can cook,” she said slowly, “but my cooking isn’t nearly the level of Emiya’s. And I don’t know where to get the flowers.”

“I doubt she will care as long as it’s food.” Diarmuid said.

“You could always get flowers on a rayshift.” Achilles pointed out.

Mordred groaned and leaned back, wishing he could spin his chair around. He was bored. This was _boring_ . And _agonizing_ . He wanted it to be _over_ already. “Just take her on a fucking date or something.” Silence, and Mordred stopped looking at the ceiling and stared back at the four people staring at them. _“What?”_

“You know,” Cu said, starting to grin, “Emiya was saying that they’d spotted a Singularity during a carnival. Not a threatening Singularity, but one that still needed to be addressed. If you talked to Gudao, then I’m certain he would be willing to put you on the same team. And if it’s large, you all could split up and you could grab Artoria and drag her off to see the sights.”

Irisviel blinked, then she too began to smile, “I’ve never been to a carnival.”

Diarmuid turned and nodded, “That could work, in fact, that might just work. I like it.” He turned around and scrawled ‘carnival’ onto the board. 

Achilles was still staring at Mordred. “I can’t believe you just said that. I can’t believe you managed to think up of that.”

Mordred scowled in his direction, “Shut up, Carrot Top. Are we about done here? I wanna fight Diarmuid.”

They were indeed done with their first meeting of Mission: Get Irisviel and Artoria Together. Irisviel left first, saying with a wave and a smile that she needed to find Gudao and ask him if there were two open spots for the Carnival Singularity. She sent a glance Mordred’s way as she left, and the Saber had a sinking feeling that she would corner him and pry on the whole mother thing. But, _whatever_ , he would make do. What concerned him more was that Cu had noticed. _Cu_ , who was part of his immediate friend group, _Cu_ , who he saw everyday. If Cu started to pry, to question, Mordred wasn’t sure how long he could fend him off.

And if he couldn’t, so what? He was certain they all had their horror stories about mothers.

But no, Cu _didn’t_ ask on the way to the training room, he _didn’t_ ask as he and Achilles dragged chairs into the room and sat down and as Mordred took off his jacket and set it aside, he _didn’t_ ask as Mordred summoned his armor and Clarent, he _didn’t_ ask as Diarmuid summoned his two spears and his own armor, and he _didn’t_ ask as Mordred and Diarmuid moved to face each other. 

Mordred scowled at the black haired Lancer. His spears were wrapped, dark fabric curling across their surfaces. He was certain they hadn’t been wrapped on the farming run. “Are you underestimating me?”

Diarmuid raised an eyebrow, “Hardly, in fact, I am treating you very seriously.” He spun his spears around in his hands, blurs of black and red and yellow, and when they steadied, only the shorter, yellow spear was covered in the fabric. “But I do take care not to do anything that might be permanent.” He smirked faintly, eyes gleaming.

Mordred growled at him, then _moved_ , a burst of red lightning, all power and force, Clarent arching down in an overhead strike. Diarmuid sidestepped, feet gliding over the floor, yellow spear guiding Clarent to the side as he struck with the red. Mordred’s instincts screamed, he barreled forwards, dropping down into a roll as pain flared across his back, hearing the whoosh of Diarmuid’s other spear as it glided past where his head should have been. Pain, how was this possible? His armor . . . _whatever_! Not now! His hand hit the ground, in a burst of red light, he threw himself onto his feet twisting to block as Diarmuid’s twin spears flashed down, Clarent trapped between the two blades. He shoved forwards, red light cascading off his armor, striking the ground, propelling him forwards, Diarmuid slid back a few paces, his spears twisted, Clarent went flying, clattering against the ground. His guard was open, just for the briefest of seconds. Mordred lunged, fists flying, Diamuid’s spears shot back in, deflecting his strikes, feet moving back as Mordred advanced. Mordred’s foot shot out, the heel clipped Diarmuid’s knee, he winced, faltered, Mordred grabbed the red spear and yanked it out of his grip, twisting and lunging into the attack. He dodged, moved, a blur, not as fast as Achilles, but still faster then Mordred. 

This _stupid_ fucking armor, it was slowing him down!

With a roar, he broke it off, allowing metal shards to shoot across the room. His instincts screamed, he twisted, blocked, the red spear stopping a shining arc of steel. Clarent. His sword. _His Sword!_ “You _bastard!_ ” He stumbled back, adjusting his grip on the red spear, grabbing both ends in his hands, blocking another strike from Clarent, twisting away from a thrust of the yellow spear. He didn’t know how to fight with a spear, and now Diarmuid had his sword and the yellow spear, and the way he was wielding Clarent suggested that he had experience using a blade. _Fuck!_

“What?” Diarmuid asked, falsly innocent, “if you steal my weapon, I’m going to steal yours.” He twirled Clarent in his grip and winced, “How heavy is this thing? I feel like I’m holding a bag of bricks.”

Mordred cursed and threw the spear at him, that was all it was good for anyway. Diarmuid sidestepped. And Mordred, back in his armor, lunged in another burst of lightning. Diarmuid moved back, Mordred didn’t care, he kept moving forwards, grabbing Clarent in one hand and the yellow spear in the other, yanking Diarmuid towards him and slamming his horned helm into the Lancer’s face. There was an audible crunch. Mordred didn’t stop there, he stepped forwards, trying to jam his heel into the top of the Lancer’s foot. Diarmuid’s feet glided away, he let go of Clarent, spinning as Mordred swung the hilt at his head, tearing the yellow spear from Mordred’s grip. Mordred threw Clarent into the air, caught it in his grip properly, then jerked forwards before Diarmuid could recover his second weapon. He attacked, Clarent striking wildly, Diarmuid either dodging or using the yellow spear to guide Clarent away from his body. He retreated in the direction of his second spear, Mordred leapt forwards in a burst of red light, feet first, a blur, ready for the impact of his sabatons against the Lancer’s chest. Diarmuid barely twisted out of the way, and Mordred went sailing forwards, he hit the ground, rolling, and when he recovered, the tip of Diarmuid’s red spear was at his neck.

“That was for eating most of the cookies.”

_“SERIOUSLY?!”_

“I think you broke my nose.”

“Don’t worry!” Achilles shouted, “it looks better that way!’

“Your red spear slipped through my fucking armor!” Oh _yes_ , that was what happened, he could feel the pull of pain across his shoulder blades, the trickle of blood down his back. He knew it was the red spear, when he’d grabbed it, he’d felt the metal against his palms, not against his gauntlets. And now, now he could feel the bite of metal against his throat, despite the gorget he wore.

Diarmuid smiled, very, very slightly. “Instinct is an annoying thing to fight.”

“Well so is Mind’s Eye,” he snapped back.

Diarmuid chuckled and moved his spear away from Mordred’s throat. “So it is. You fought well.”

Mordred snarled at him. “I’ll get you next time.”

“I’m sure you will.” He stepped aside as Mordred got up. “Well, I'm the winner. Achilles, get down here. I still have a point to prove.”

“What point?”

“That you shouldn’t sleep through Chiron’s lectures.”

Mordred stomped his way towards Cu as Achilles took his place on the battlefield. Cu raised a med kit, “Shirt off, kid, we need to patch up your back before -”

“Nightingale sees, yeah, yeah.” Mordred grumbled, dismissing his armor and yanking his shirt over his head. He sat so he could watch Achilles and Diarmuid collide on the field, legs crossed, shirt bunched in his lap, “the fucker knew what I was going to do.”

Cu laughed, there was a sting as he smeared the antibiotics across the wound. “Welcome to fighting Diarmuid. He’s not as strong as the rest of us, but he plans every move as if it’s a chess game. You don’t fight, you follow the script he’s written without realizing it. Doesn’t mean you can’t pull a win though, it’s just annoying as fuck to do so.” There was a pull on his skin, he figured bandages or gauze or adhesive or some shit. “You know,” Cu said, a bit softer, “that you should give Irisviel a chance.”

Mordred scowled, watching as Achilles retreated rapidly from Diarmuid’s dual blades. It was odd to watch, Diarmuid seemed to favor the red one more, but he used the yellow in a way that was somehow more skillful. Together, they wove an intricate pattern that Achilles was having trouble seeing through. The only reason he hadn’t fallen yet was because he was faster and stronger than Diarmuid, and his wounds healed almost immediately. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about Irisviel. She’s not like Morgana.” Mordred stiffened, and Cu continued, voice quiet. “Emiya told me, you know, of your guys conversation while he was trying to convince you to help -”

“Rescue you?” Mordred supplied, grinning briefly before that grin was doused.

“Sure, let's go with that,” Cu said in a tone of long suffering. “I don’t know much about your mother, but from what I do know, she wasn’t a good one. Irisviel isn’t like that, she’s a good person, she’s a good mother.”

“There is no such thing as a good mother.” Mordred said.   
He wasn’t looking, but he bet that the Lancer was frowning. “That’s not true.”

“Yes it is. Mothers, they _use_ you, they _don’t_ love you, they _don’t_ nurture you or help you grow. They _make_ you, they _sharpen_ you, then they _use_ you.”

“Emiya told me you didn’t kill Artoria because of her.”

“He told you right, I didn’t kill Father for her. I killed her for me.” He thought back, to that conversation, to the words he had used. _“Killing Father was my choice. Destroying Camelot was my choice. But, Father was everything to me. Everything. But I was nothing to him. So I made myself be something for him. If I could not be his son, then I would be his enemy. If I could not follow him without him facing me, then I would leave him to make him face me. That was why I killed him. Not because of Morgana and what she tried to mold me into. It was Father’s choices that led to that battlefield, it was my choices that led to his death.”_ “It was _our_ choices,” he said, “ _Our_ mistakes, _our_ problems that lead to that battlefield. My anger, my need, her inability to understand, to acknowledge me as her son. That was what led to that battle field. _Not_ what Morgana did to me.”

“I think Morgana had a greater deal to do with it than you think.” He pulled back, Mordred heard the kit close. “You can put your shirt back on now.” Mordred did so, then reached out and shrugged on his jacket, rubbing the red leather between his fingers. “I didn’t really know my father either.” He said it suddenly, and Mordred twisted to stare at him. Cu shrugged, his eyes solemn, “It’s not the same, obviously. I had a mother I could go back to, and I had plenty of father figures. But there’s always something there, something that makes it feel like it’s not the same as having your birth father right there, supporting what you do.”

Mordred turned away and watched Achilles and Diarmuid fight. Achilles was on the offensive now, Diarmuid beating a hasty retreat, steps stumbling slightly as if the wound in his knee from Mordred’s attack was flaring up. Mordred wondered if that was part of the Lancer’s plan too. “No, it isn’t the same.” He said, shoving his hands into his jacket and thinking of Kairi. The Necromancer had been the closest thing to a proper father figure for him, but still, part of him ached for Father, his _real_ father, to acknowledge him. Morgana had been a lost cause from the beginning, but Father had been the only reason he’d managed to get out of that situation with any semblance of sanity. Without Arthur’s light, he would have truly been nothing but Morgana’s tool. “Because you always ache for what should have been.”

“Yeah,” Cu paused, then humor back in his voice, he said, “Did you know, out of the four of us here, Achilles is the only one with anything nearing a normal family?”

Mordred jerked up, his back pulling slightly as he did so. “No way.”

“Yes way,” Cu grinned, “Half divine and all.”

A sharp cry of pain, the two turned to watch Achilles as he stumbled, one leg buckling underneath him. Diarmuid twirled out of his crouch to lay the tip of his yellow spear against Achilles’ throat. “I keep on telling you,” he said, in a tired voice, “to cover your tendon. It’s not a secret anymore.”

Achilles just groaned loudly in despair. 

Cu jumped to his feet, clapping his hands. “Great! Achilles, you’re off, my turn.” Achilles stumbled up and limped off the battlefield, then collapsed beside Mordred. Mordred passed him the med kit in a picture of solidarity, then turned to watch the fight. Diarmuid wasn’t fighting as fast as he had before, perhaps because of the kick he had taken to his knee, perhaps because Achilles had gotten him somewhere. Cu, however, was a whirlwind, always going forwards, never stopping.

“Fucker always goes for my tendon,” Achilles grumbled, yanking his shoes off and wrapping his tendon in gauze.

“Perhaps you should learn to block then.” Mordred shot back, a bit more subdued than usual. Then, quietly, he asked, “what was your Master in our Great Holy Grail War like?”

Achilles sighed heavily. “I don’t really know. That priest gave us our orders, he claimed that they were from our Masters, but . . . I wonder how long they were drugging them for. And later, later he convinced our Masters to give us to him, and then he was our Master, not just Assassin’s.” He scowled faintly, “I’m kinda jealous, you know? You and your Master managed to avoid that fate.”

“Kairi?” Mordred jerked a shrug, “well, we wouldn’t have if he hadn’t listened to me that first day. He didn’t join forces with the priest because I was getting bad vibes from Assassin.” He remembered that time, the roiling hatred in his gut as he stared at the raven haired woman who seemed so like Morgana, his shocked surprise when Kairi listened to his advice and kept separate from the Red Team. Mordred had been a tool, and Kairi had listened to him anyway, and that had been so, _so_ unexpected.

“He sounds like a good Master.”

Mordred thought of Kairi’s stupid sunglasses and ridiculous orange shirt, of his habit of sleeping in tombs and buying ridiculous Halloween themed shit. How he fought in battle without every card he had, but was still honorable enough to keep the populace out of their war, and brave enough to rush into a poison filled room with a magic aligned Assassin to give Mordred a fighting chance. Mordred smiled, small and sad, and for a second he tasted the smoke of those horrible cigarettes on his tongue, “He was one of the best.”

After lunch, Mordred was ambushed, an arm dropping around his shoulder, a grin sent his direction. “So, what do you think of everyone’s shirts?”

Mordred stopped moving and stared at his Master, the black hair, the shining blue eyes, the shirt that read BEING A PROJECT MANAGER IS EASY, IT’S LIKE RIDING A BIKE EXCEPT THE BIKE IS ON FIRE, YOU’RE ON FIRE, EVERYTHING IS ON FIRE, AND YOU’RE IN HELL. “Gudako?” He asked, just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, although the arm around his shoulders felt all too real.

“Gudao for today, and maybe tomorrow too, we’ll see.” He flashed a grin, sharp and wide, and Mordred was hit suddenly with a memory from London. He’d been up, Gudako too, it had been the middle of the night, everyone else was asleep. Gudako had started up a whole conversation about gender and assumptions and all this other shit, and Mordred hadn’t known why until Gudako had smiled, and said as if it was a secret, _“Want to know something? Sometimes I’m not a girl either.”_ And here was the proof, because it was Fujimaru Ritsuka whose arm was around his shoulder, it was his Master, the bond was there, but the visage was different. An illusion? Did it really matter? “So?” Gudao pressed, blue eyes gleaming.   
Mordred grinned at him, sharp and wide. “The ones I’ve seen so far are great.” His grin widened, “Hey, you said Chiron chose Achilles’ shirt, right?”

He blinked, “Yeah?” 

“Can I request one?”

Gudao raised an eyebrow, dropped his arm. “Who is it for, and what’s it going to say?”

“It would be for Merlin,” if he ever came, “and it would say ‘Went to an antique show and people were bidding on me’.”

Gudao tilted his head slightly, thinking, then grinned, wide and delighted. “Yeah, I can do that.” He waved a hand, called, “Hey Mash, over here!”

“Ah! Senpai! There you are!” The purple haired Demi-Servant ran up to them, her shirt flashing the cheerful message JUST A RAY OF FUCKING SUNSHINE. She looked at Mordred, the eyes behind her glasses wide and apologetic. “I am so, so sorry.”

Mordred blinked, “For what?”

“Come on Mash,” Gudao whined, “It’s going to be great. Mo-san’s going to love this.”

“So sorry.” Mash repeated.

“What’s going on?” Mordred asked, resisting the urge to step back and make a break for it.

Gudao turned to him, eyes wide and delighted. “Today, Mordred, I’m going to introduce you to the wonders of B-rated movies. Starting with Sharknado!”

“I couldn’t stop him,” Mash said apologetically. “I’m so sorry.”

He sat down at Beowulf’s table again, staring at nothing, eating mechanically. His mind felt scoured, numb, but his ribs hurt from laughter. How could something be so _stupid_ , so _horrible_ , and so _funny_ at the same time? He didn’t understand.

God his brain hurt.

Beowulf sat beside him, bench creaking under his weight. “Hey, Mordred, you there?”

Mordred turned to stare at him. Then at the hulking Berserker’s shirt. WRESTLING COACH LIKE A REGULAR COACH BUT COOLER. He managed a half-hearted laugh. “Yeah, just -” he sighed, a long thing, trying to figure out what to say.

“This is Mordred’s third full day at Chaldea,” Leonidas said, sitting down, “His fourth overall. It would have been B-movies today.”

Beowulf made a face. “Ah.”

“They weren’t _that_ bad.” Mordred protested, staring at Leonidas’ shirt. It didn’t have a message, just some math symbol with a spartan helmet, spear and shield. “It’s just when you binge watch them, then it's horrible.”

“Which ones did you watch?” Beowulf pressed.

“The Sharknado series.” 

“Oh.” The other two said at the same time. It was an odd tone, one that seemed to say that they shared his pain. Truly, it was a horrible weight to carry.

“I don’t know what you all are talking about.” Martha said, setting her plate down before easing into her seat besides Leonidas. “The first Sharknado wasn’t overly bad.”

Beowulf groaned. “It was horrible.”

“It was not.” Martha protested.

“As if.” Leonidas stabbed a vegetable with his fork, “It was bad. A real movie is something along the lines of -”

“The Three Hundred.” Beowulf and Martha said at the same time, “We know.”

Mordred snorted, then he lost it, bursting into honest laughter. He wasn’t going to, he’d thought the B-rated movies had taken it all out of him, but there was just something about watching the three bicker that started it. Although it could have been Martha’s shirt, which read LORD GIVE ME PATIENCE BECAUSE IF YOU GIVE ME STRENGTH I’M GONNA NEED BAIL MONEY TO GO WITH IT.

“You three,” he said, grinning widely, “Are going to absolutely _love_ what I picked for movie night tomorrow.”

_Mordred is three and he looks like he’s seven. His growth has slowed slightly, so he doesn’t trip every morning because his center of balance is off. He’ll stop growing soon enough, be stuck at a certain height and age forever. It will be nice, to not fall and run and bump into things all the time. To not have growth spurts in the middle of the night, with clothes ill fitting that Mother refuses to fix._

_He is three and he looks like he’s seven, and he is outside for the first time in his life. The street is crowded, people pressed together, all types of people. He hadn’t known so many people existed, and for a second, he envies their simple lives, hates them for living in such a safe way when he has been torn apart and put back together too many times to count. He sees their clean faces and unblemished skin and something bites in him so hard it almost hurts._

_Mordred does not have scars, Mother wipes them away, but if he did, he would be a patchwork thing. Crescent ones and jagged ones from where broken bones had popped out of his skin. Long ones from where the shrapnel from his shattering blade had cut him when they flew. Mother had replaced the stone golem by now, the last golem had been a thing of metal, all sharp edges and jagged steel. He had been cut to ribbons and sewn back together multiple times before he had managed to bring that down. She had moved on to live monsters after that, ones that didn’t wait when he fell. Most recently it had been a young gazer, he can still feel the ghost of the burns from it’s laser._

_But he is not standing with those people, those safe, ordinary people with their safe, ordinary lives. He is in the alley, hidden in the shadows. It smells of dung and piss and rotting things, but he does not care, because he is caught by the sight._

_Knights, riding on their horses down the street. The people are cheering, over and over. “King Arthur! Arthur!” They are happy, delighted, but Mordred can not understand the feeling. How can one man bring such delight? Such joy? He stands on his tiptoes, tries to get a better view._

_He knows the names of these knights, knows their faces from Mother’s stories. Sir Agraiven, his older half brother, with the dark hair and the dark armor. Sir Gawain, another of Mother’s children, with his massive fur cloak. Sir Lancelot, the supposed best, with his purple hair and his sad eyes. Sir Bedivere, one arm, silver haired, who smiled slightly at the crowd as he passed. Sir Tristan, with his melancholy face and his long red hair. Merlin, the court wizard, the one Mother hates the most out of all of them except King Arthur._

_And then there is the king, and the sight takes Mordred’s breath away. He is shorter than Mordred expected, younger looking too, with hair shining gold in the sun. It is a different gold than Mother’s, a sharper, real gold, warmer, better, and Mordred realizes with shock that their hair is the same color. He can’t see the whole of King Arthur’s face from here, but he can make out the small nose, the slightly pointed chin. He is thinner than Mordred expected him to be, almost too delicate looking for his armor, but he carries himself in a way that makes it look like he can shoulder the weight of the world._

_“Our promised King!” Someone shouts._

_“Bring peace to Britain!” Another yells._

_Mordred is three and he looks like he is seven, and it is the first time he has seen a knight, and it is the first time he has seen the king. He thinks of Mother and her magic, and looks at King Arthur, his uncle, and his shining armor, the hilt of Excalibur, his head of golden hair. He looks at the way people cheer for him, not just him, but the others as well. This is what it is like to be strong. Truly strong, not like what Mother is trying to warp him into. A strength of character as well as body._

_He wants it._

_He wants to be up there, with them, amongst them. He wants to go up there to the king and cry out and say “I am Mordred le Fay, your nephew, please, take me as your squire!” It is an escape he sees when he looks at them, a break from Mother and the pain and terror she creates. But it is more than that, it is a future._

_He wants to be a knight._

_Not because Mother wants him too, not because of Mother’s plans for him, but because he sees how bright and shining they are, and wants to be like that. He wants to be strong like them. He wants to be good like them. He wants to be one of them. His brothers made it, he should be able to make it too._

_And suddenly, the training scheduled for later today no longer looks like a death wish._

_He can do it, he can make it. He will do it, he will make it, because his Mordred le Fay and he is not afraid. He is Mordred le Fay and he is strong._

_“That is Arthur, the King of Knights,” he says, and there is awe in his voice._

_“That’s right. The person you should aim to become.” Mother comes from the shadows, her hands landing on his shoulders as she crouches beside him. He stiffens immediately, fear pulsing through his veins, expecting the customary burst of pain from her touch. But there is nothing, it’s just a touch, and he does not know what to expect. Her next words though, make everything align. “The enemy you must defeat.”_

_He cannot understand. He doesn't understand. Enemy? Defeat? He knows his mother hates the king, but this . . . he turns from her, away from her to stare at the king and his knights. He wants to say these words aloud, but if he does Mother will make him pay. So he says them in his mind instead._

_‘I think it’s impossible. The perfection of the king, it’s beautiful! I want to serve under his wing. I’ll be the tip of his blade to purify any filth!’_

_There is something building in his chest. He can name the dread, Mother wants him to be a knight to get close to Arthur, to defeat him, but if he does this, he will be disobeying her. She will destroy him if she finds out. But there is something overshadowing the dread, warm, getting hotter, spreading through his veins like fire, not entirely unpleasant._

_Mordred is three and he looks like he’s seven, and this is the first time he’s ever been excited about something._

Mordred woke, this time not gasping for breath, this time just laying, staring at the ceiling as the memory receded. He could still see the sight, but now he knew the Knights of the Round were not as perfect as they had appeared back then. Sir Agraiven had been a sour thing, the one who’d been torn by Morgana the most next to Mordred. Sir Gawain had seemed the perfect knight, but he was prone to anger, even if he strangled it down the best he could. Sir Lancelot had been the king's favorite, but he liked his women, and he slept with the queen. Sir Bedivere had been the teacher's pet, and weak as well. Sir Tristan had always moped for his lady love, and could not watch the words he spoke. Sir Gareth, who’d come after Mordred, had been young and naïve. Merlin, so powerful, so lazy, so untrustworthy, always had an ulterior motive to be found. And Father . . . King Arthur, on the surface so perfect she was blinding, while beneath she could not understand how others felt.

They were the truth of Camelot, a perfect front, only to reveal cracks and darkness beneath the gilded exterior. Yet despite all that, they had brought peace to Camelot for so long . . . until Mordred had brought it all crashing down.

Fumma was already fighting when Mordred arrived, flickering across the beach, knives flashing as they bounced off shells. Mordred joined him, Clarent splitting the shell of one crab to bury itself in the flesh beneath. They fought in silence, devoid of Mordred’s normal yells and roars, of his growls and grunts. The only sound was the water against the sand, and the crash of weapons against the crabs’ shells. Finally, the last crab fell, and Da Vinci’s voice rang out, **“Simulation complete~”** , but the beach did not fade away.

Mordred looked at the small Assassin, and Fuuma looked back at him, tugging awkwardly at a lock of hair. “I . . . I like to watch the waves sometimes. It . . . ah . . . it clears my head.”

Mordred stared at him for a few more seconds, then turned back to the ocean, dismissing his armor and burying his hands in his jacket pockets. The waves were gentle, lapping softly against the beach, silver tipped in the moonlight. There was a slight breeze, tangling with his hair, tasting of salt on his tongue. It was almost disturbingly real, and Mordred couldn’t help wonder how Da Vinci had managed something like this.

“Sometimes,” Fuuma said, suddenly, then he fell silent before speaking again, “I like to watch the water. As if . . . it could carry the dreams away.”

Mordred bent and grabbed a handful of sand, watching the grains slip through his fingers. He turned his gaze back to the water, _in_ , the first time in Morgana’s training room, _out_ , gone as if it had never been. Who would he be if Morgana had not been a part of his life? Someone less angry, someone less broken, but beyond that, he didn’t know. He stood back up. “What do you dream of?” 

For a long time Fuuma didn’t answer, then he spoke, two words, soft in the air, barely heard. “My future.”

Mordred stared at the beach and at the water, an illusion even if it felt so real. “I dream of my past.”

Fuuma didn’t reply, Mordred didn’t need him too, they both knew what horrors were like, it didn’t need to be said. So they just stood there, watching the sea lap against the shore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CasCu's said : I Thought Growing Old Would Take Longer


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Assassin (not Fuuma) is fought, a Berserker is summoned, the reveal of the Gossip Gang, Movie Night happens, a tournament is remembered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thank you so much for your comments and kudos, every one brings light into my life. (Betcha didn't expect an update this early, guess what, neither did I). I hope you all enjoy this chapter and I hope you have a wonderful day!
> 
> As always, potential triggers, just in case.

“Ah! Spartan trainee, it is good to see that you have returned!” Leonidas stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed over his tank top. Martha and Beowulf were nowhere to be seen. He’d been left alone with the  _ monster _ .

Mordred snorted. “You thought I wouldn’t? Three days is three days. I don’t half-ass things.” He didn’t even hurt that much now, perhaps if he had been a real person, then yeah, but he was a Heroic Spirit.  _ Besides _ , he was used to pain, he knew how to push past it. “And I’m British.”

Leonidas grinned. “In here, you are a Spartan. For this is Sparta!”

“It is not!” Mordred protested.

Leonidas grinned wider. “You know the drill, one hundred laps, start running, Spartan trainee!”

Mordred hated him, he truly,  _ truly  _ did.

When Mordred made it to the training room after breakfast, he was practically dragging himself there. He wasn’t sure if Leonidas had purposely made it worse, or it was his imagination, but the training today had been  _ brutal _ , somehow even  _ more  _ painful than yesterday. It wasn’t quite up to Beowulf’s noble phantasm, but it was close.

“Damn,” Cu said when he entered, “Look what the cat drug in.”

“Shut up,” Mordred said, then winced. His jaw hurt. How the  _ hell  _ did his jaw hurt?

Diarmuid moved off the wall, “You look horrible, what happened?”

“I’m doing Leonidas’ fucking training program for servants. Who the hell is Carrot Top sparring with?” He wanted to be annoyed, but he felt too weak to do anything really. He almost hadn’t managed to get up out of his seat to head this way. Slowly, he turned to watch Achilles blaze across the battlefield in bursts of white light, his opponent seen as nothing but a flutter of purple cloth and long dark hair. 

“Sasaki Kojir ō, he’s an Assassin, and like Beowulf, he occasionally pops in for a spar or two.” Diarmuid eyed Mordred, “He was quite interested in fighting you, but you don’t look like you’re up to it.”

“Leonidas has a training session for Servants?” Cu pressed, looking almost interested in the idea.

Mordred didn’t warn Cu about the dangers, if he wanted to die, that was his choice. Instead, he focused on Diarmuid’s words. “Fuck off, I’m fine.” He pushed himself away from the wall as if his legs weren’t made of jelly, but already the prospect of a fight was driving the feeling of being pounded into mush away from his body. 

This Sasaki wanted to fight him? 

_ Oh _ , he would get his fight. 

Mordred was going to fucking _ bring it.  _

He turned to watch the battle, this time, he wasn’t going in unprepared. The first thing he noticed was that this Sasaki was fast, fast as Achilles, flickering in and out of view like a shadow, but Mordred still managed to catch sight of his blade, a long, thin sword that he wielded two handed, slightly curved and sharp on one edge. It clashed against Achilles spear, sparks flying, hemming the attack on all sides. Then the flurry of blows stopped, the battle frozen, Achilles’ spear poking the samurai’s gut, the other’s weapon touching the Rider’s throat.

“My win.” Achilles grunted, brows furrowed.

“Hardly,” Sasaki intoned, raising one eyebrow, his long hair drifting slowly back into place, “You were limping, Achilles. Diarmuid strike your tendon again? You really should learn to guard that spot. That would make this a tie.”

Achilles opened his mouth to retort, but Mordred, after yanking his jacket off, folding it, and placing it on the ground, jumped into the fray. “Shut up Carrot Top! My turn.” He grabbed Achilles and dragged him away from the sword’s tip, cursing as Achilles protested loudly over the nickname.

“Oh?” Sasaki said, dropping his guard, holding his blade one handed, “Ah, the young prince of Britain. I have fought your father before, it will be interesting to fight you.”

Mordred sent him a snarled grin, and pushed Achilles towards Cu and Diarmuid, turning around to face the Assassin. “You’ve fought Father?”

“Yes,” He said, in an odd tone of voice, filled with awe and something else, “she is quite the swordswoman, it will be intriguing to see if you measure up to her skill.” Mordred’s grin widened, splitting across his face even as the anger reared its head. Sasaki was here to compare him to Father.  _ Fine _ . That was  _ fine _ . He would send him home with broken bones as proof that Mordred was  _ better _ . “I hope for a fair duel,” Sasaki continued, his voice mellow and calm.

He didn’t get to finish the sentence, because Mordred was already flying towards him, lighting leaping off his skin. Sasaki’s eyes widened, his feet shifted, he raised his sword to block. It might have worked if Mordred had summoned Clarent, but he hadn’t, his gauntlets curved over his fists and arms, one forearm intercepted the blade, drove it back as his fist impacted Sasaki’s face. The Assassin stumbled back, regained his feet, dancing away, before striking, sword hissing through the air, barely a flicker. Mordred’s lightning played across his skin, he raised his gauntleted fist, taking the strike as the edge of the sword bit into his shoulder, the rest stopped by his gauntlet. He summoned Clarent in his other hand and swung wildly, Sasaki bent like a reed, his sword slipping past Mordred’s defense to graze against his cheek. Mordred growled, his armor crackled into life around him, helmet clicking into place as he leapt to the attack, Clarent swinging in wild arcs, lightning trailing after the shining ark of steel. Sasaki bent and spun and dodged, using his sword to guide Mordred’s attacks away from him, always,  _ always  _ one step ahead.

It was like fighting Diarmuid with Achilles’ speed.

Except two crucial details.

_ One _ , his sword wasn’t penetrating his armor.

And  _ two _ , he didn’t know how Mordred fought.

Sasaki’s eyes narrowed faintly, he switched from defense to attack, his sword becoming a blur, coming in at all sides. Perhaps, if Mordred was Artoria, he would have tried to dodge or block, but he wasn’t his father, and in a burst of red lightning, he lunged forwards, Clarent raised high above his head. Sasaki’s attack cut off short, he stepped to the side as the sword was brought down, his own tilted to both block the blade and strike, and that was when Mordred’s knee impacted his ribs with all the strength Mordred could muster. He went flying, skidding across the ground, and Mordred was after him, a blur of red light and shining metal. Sasaki recovered quickly, catching his feet, but Clarent was already arching down, he dodged, only for Mordred to aim another kick at him. He dodged that as well, but Mordred’s fist hit his cheek with a crack like a gunshot and he was sent spinning across the room again. He pushed himself up, wavering, coughing, but Mordred was already there, lightning arching off his armor and striking the ground as he slid to a halt, Claret touching the Assassin’s throat.

“My win.” The words were a growl, pushed past his feral grin.

Sasaki closed his eyes and sighed, sword disappearing and hands raising slightly. “Very well, your win.” He coughed, “I think you broke a rib.”

Mordred pulled back, scoffing, “I didn’t hit you that hard.”

Sasaki shook his head, a smile flitting across his face, “You are very different then Artoria.”

Mordred sucked in a deep breath, and dismissed Clarent and his armor. “I know.”

“ _ Seriously! _ I  _ do not _ need a guard detail” 

“We aren’t your guard detail,” Diarmuid said, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “I am simply waiting here so I may find out when they are solving the Carnival Singularity. I don’t know what the two goons are doing.”

“OI!”

“HEY!”

Diarmuid raised an eyebrow as if to say ‘see?’

Mordred sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets, glaring at the three of them. It was a guard detail, he  _ knew  _ it had to be a guard detail, because after he’d  _ kicked  _ Sasaki’s butt, the Assassin had the gall to call him out on his ‘less than honorable fighting techniques’. As if Mordred  _ cared _ ! He followed the important parts of the Chivalric code, just not, like, the dueling parts. Which he had said, loudly, apparently somehow offending the Assassin, who’d taken it personally. 

For some  _ stupid  _ reason.

Cu had explained over lunch that Sasaki had been killed when his opponent had shown up late to a duel and then bludgeoned him to death with a stick. Which, Mordred got, okay? He was fond of surprise attacks, any advantage was a good advantage after all, but there  _ was  _ a fucking  _ limit _ . However, he knew that most people hung up on honor didn’t think that way, that it was either all or nothing. That was good for him, it meant those people didn’t expect half the stunts he pulled, but  _ apparently _ , some people were  _ so  _ uptight about it, they thought attacking when the opponent wasn’t prepared was a bad duel conduct, or whatever.

It was  _ stupid _ , and Mordred had said as much.

Sasaki had disagreed, vehemently.

Mordred was pretty sure that the Assassin hated him now, but oh well, he didn’t care. 

So now he was here, with his fucking guard detail, waiting for Gudao to come and rescue him from the three idiots. 

“Oh,” Diarmuid said, straightening slightly.

“What?” Cu asked, jerking around from where he and Achilles had been arguing over something stupid again. Or they were conspiring to get Diarmuid back for the goons remark.

Achilles whistled, “So soon? Normally it takes longer.”

Mordred, with a groan, turned around to look at what they were gaping at. There was Gudao, walking down the hall in a shirt that said CERTIFIED RESPONSIBLE ADULT. There was Mash, by his side, leaning over and speaking quietly. And there, beside them, towering over them both, was -  _ “FRAN?!” _

The girl stopped, her white skirts swirling, her head tilting. There was a flash of amber and blue eyes, a slightly confused expression. “Uh?” 

Mordred grinned, wide and sudden, and blasted forwards, skidding to a halt in front of the much taller Berserker, holding out a fist. “It’s good to see that you made it!”

She nodded, a single sharp nod, pink hair shifting, her metal horn glinting. “Uh!” She fist bumped Mordred gently, there was the briefest flash of a shy smile.

Behind him, he could hear Cu and Achilles and Diarmuid burst into murmured whispers, but  _ whatever _ , fuck those guys. Gudao laughed, “I thought you would like to see her, after how well you got along in London.” Somebody made a noise behind them, there was the sound of a brief scuffle. Mordred jerked around to aim a glare at the three stooges. Achilles was precariously balanced, Diarmuid’s hands wrapped around his mouth. Cu was bent over, restraining his laughter. Mordred opened his mouth to tell them to be nuisances elsewhere, but Gudao continued before he could. “We’re taking her on the tour, would you like to come?” 

Mordred looked at Fran and grinned. “You know what? Sign me up, ain’t got anything else to do anyway.”

Fran smiled back softly.

Taking a tour with Gudao and Mash was very different then taking a tour with the Chaos Crew. For one, there was less insults and chases, less arguments and double backing because some areas had been accidentally skipped. It was professional, calmer, more informative, and, although Mordred would never say it aloud, kinda boring. He preferred his own tour, but watching Fran’s awed face and interjecting his own comments into the mix livened things up a bit.

And as a plus, he found out his furniture would be done by tomorrow.

Even with that good news, he couldn’t help but . . . worry was the wrong word, he was  _ Mordred Pendragon  _ and he didn’t get worried, but he was  _ something _ . Fran and him had gotten along well in London because she’d had no memories of their battles, but she was in Chaldea now, and she would remember the Great Holy Grail War sooner rather than later. She would remember their fight, her death at his hands. How would it affect the way she saw him?

In some ways, Mordred didn’t regret what he had done. They had been fighting a  _ war _ , they had been enemies, there was no reason for him to regret his actions. But at the same time, she was like him, a facsimile of life that had been rejected by her father. She had died trying to take Mordred down, and had almost succeeded. He respected that strength, the tenaciousness that had allowed her to hold onto her form for that long, the bravery that action required. He liked the friendship they had forged in London.

He didn’t want to lose it.

Dinner rolled around, and instead of stopping by Beowulf’s, Martha’s, and Leonidas’ table, or by the table claimed by three of the four Culainns, he sat down with Fran. They’d been left to their own devices, because  _ apparently  _ something had gone wrong with the projector, and Gudao and Mash were needed to supervise. Rumer had it that Servants were involved. Which was, in all honesty, probably true.  _ But hey! _ If someone else got in trouble, then Diarmuid, Achilles, and him should be off the list. At least he  _ hoped  _ so.

He took a break from shoveling food into his mouth to glance at Fran. The Berserker was picking at her own food, a doubtful look on her face. He swallowed his mouthful and said, “Trust me, it's good.” She tilted her head, and Mordred glanced at the sparse morsels on her plate. With a sigh, he pushed his own over and dumped a couple of spoonful's of his curry onto her dish. “There, you have to eat it now.” 

She gave him a  _ look _ . He knew she was giving him a  _ look _ .

“Come on, I gave you part of my food! I never give people part of my food!” She looked at her plate, then looked back up at him. She smiled, one of her small, soft smiles, and took a bite of her curry. Her eyes widened. Mordred leaned forwards, grinning. “Is it good?”

She chewed, swallowed, then nodded. “Uh!” Fran speech for yes.

Mordred leaned back, grinning widely. “Told you,” he said, returning to his own meal. He could feel eyes on the back of his head, he jerked around, and met the gaze of, halfway across the room, Achilles. Achilles was grinning. Mordred flipped him the middle finger and turned back to his meal.

Eating with Fran was different then eating with either of his two current groups. She was calmer, quieter, even if that wasn’t by choice. But, despite the fact that she was a Berserker, she had an air of peace that most of the people he knew didn’t exhibit, except, perhaps, for Fuuma. But Fuuma's presence was less peaceful, and more of a quiet thoughtfulness. Fran was peaceful, truly peaceful, and it was a nice change from his normal companions. Around her, it was easy to relax.

And well, if he got angry, she knew all about rage.

In that regard, their stories were similar too, their reactions towards a father who would not accept them.

Mordred blinked and shook his head, forcing his mind back on the here and now. Food.  _ Food  _ was in front of him. That was  _ important _ . He glanced at Fran, noticed that she was no longer picking at her meal, but actually tucking in, and grinned.

“Trust me, this is going to be  _ great _ .”

“Uh.”

“What is  _ that  _ supposed to mean?”

“Uh.”

“I have a great taste in movies!”

“Uh.” 

“Well how would you know? You’ve  _ never  _ seen a movie I’ve picked before!”

“Uh.”

“Your lack of belief in me is terrifying.” This time, Fran’s answer was a slight, amused huff. Mordred yanked open the door to the makeshift theater, “Ladies first.” Fran gave him a brief smile, and stepped inside, Mordred following soon after.

The makeshift theater was large, very large, it would have to be to host a good portion of Chaldea. Seats filled the room, plush chairs, benches, rolly chairs, hard looking plastic chairs, stools. He swore that there was an actual freaking bed somewhere in the mess. On one side of the room a roll of something was being pulled down from the ceiling. He could see Da Vinci, some lion-headed guy, a guy in a purple suit, Gudao, Mash, and a red haired man who looked vaguely familiar. They all looked very,  _ very  _ busy, and Gudao looked very,  _ very  _ tired. Mordred decided that it would be best to leave them in peace.

“Hey Fran, where do you want to sit?”   
The Berserker looked around, then pointed. The back of the room was slightly elevated, and the selection of chairs there seemed to be better. “Uh.”

“Good choice.” They made their way up. Fran sat in a plush red chair, carefully spreading her white skirts. Mordred grabbed a rolly chair, and because he could, started spinning, the room flashing by him over and over again.

He briefly wondered if Father, or if any of the Arthurs, would come. He kind of hoped so, because their reactions would be  _ hilarious _ . 

“Uh.” Fran said, and Mordred stopped spinning to see what had grabbed her attention. People were trickling in now. Many glanced in their direction, and the Berserker tipped her head curiously. Mordred sent them his classic shit eating grin and a glare to whomever stared too long, which included Diarmuid, Cu, Achilles, and to his surprise, Beowulf, Martha, Irisviel, Bedivere, and Lancelot. He could make out Father’s form beside Irisviel, and perhaps a glimpse of the younger Arthur as well. For once, it wasn’t anger or longing or something harder to fathom that panged in his gut, no, it was excitement.  _ Oh _ , this was going to be absolutely  _ wonderful _ .

Somebody split from the crowd, rushing in their direction “Oi! Mordred! Mystery girl! Could I sit with you guys tonight?”

Mordred’s grin faltered. He blinked. It was the youngest Chulainn headed their way, Proto. He was looking behind him with a decidedly nervous expression. Mordred looked at Fran, she dipped her head, so Mordred shrugged. “Sure. This is Fran.”

Proto sent them a grin, a bit sickly and nervous, and dropped onto a wooden chair with a cushion. “It’s nice to meet you Fran. I’m Proto.” He held out a hand.

Fran took it, gave it a brief shake. “Uh.”

He blinked, “Okay.”

Mordred was not going to be dissuaded. “So, why do you want to sit with us?”

Proto groaned and leaned his head back, pinching his nose. “My oldest self is on a fucking rampage today. Absolute bullcrap. He is bound and determined to try to find something that is not there!” His voice rose slightly.

“Uh?” 

“I’ll explain the oldest self thing later, Fran. So, you’re running?”

Proto scowled. “I’m not running. I’m just . . .” he floundered.

“Uh.” Fran said, with conviction.

Mordred nodded, “What she said.” Proto gave the two of them a blank look, and Mordred elaborated, “Looking for reinforcements.”

“I guess you could say that.” He lowered his voice, “CasCu, Achilles, and Marie basically control the gossip circles around Chaldea. Be very careful about what you do or say around the three of them. And if they do corner you, don’t divulge anything. Otherwise, it will be all over Chaldea in a hour.”

Mordred tried to imagine Achilles meeting up with CasCu and whomever that third person was to discuss gossip. Like old women who had nothing better to do, chattering over tea and biscuits. He snorted. The image was  _ priceless _ .

“Uh?” Fran tilted her head, leaned forwards slightly, obviously curious.

“She wants to know what CasCu was trying to get you to spill. I’m going to bet that it deals with your maybe, maybe-not date.”

“IT WASN-” He sucked in a deep breath, then in a lower tone said, “it wasn’t a date. I was on rotation. I was fighting. Not on a date.” 

“Uh?”

Mordred, unfortunately, didn’t get to translate Fran’s final ‘then why are you blushing?’ because Gudao interrupted them.  **“Hello everyone!** ” Mordred spun to face the front of the room, where Gudao stood in front of the giant screen thing with a microphone in hand and a nervous grin on his face.  **“First off, I would like to thank everyone who was able to make it tonight. Second off, I would like to say that this movie is a parody. Please do not be offended by anything that happens in it. It is not true, and was made for laughs. Well, that’s all the announcements for tonight folks, with no further ado, let us began MONTY PYTHON AND THE HOLY GRAIL!”**

If Mordred had known how  _ bad  _ that movie was, he still would have picked it. Sure, he wasn’t in it, but it was  _ hilarious _ . He’d almost hurt himself from laughing so much. From the very beginning with the credits, something he hadn’t really been able to catch much of, to the very end, where Arthur and the other knights were arrested, everything about it was so bad it was good. And it just got better when he saw both Lancelot’s and Bedevire’s faces. They looked like they had been smacked in the face with a  _ shovel _ . The young Arthur was having a giggle fit, apparently unconcerned with the movie's many inaccuracies. Father was blank faced, not a cold blank face, but a stunned blank face, and Mordred took that minute expression change as a sign of victory.

_ “That,” _ he said as he, Fran, and Proto made their escape before someone could hunt the Saber down and murder him for putting them through B-movie hell, “was  _ awesome _ .”

“Uh.” Fran said, as if she  _ hadn’t  _ been laughing through some of the parts.

“It was pretty good,” Proto proclaimed.

Fran shook her head.

Mordred just grinned. “Agree to disagree.” He nudged Fran’s side, “You get to pick next anyway. I bet you can’t outdo that!”

She looked down at him, her blue and amber eyes briefly visible through her hair. “Uh.” It was vehement, and certain. Not an acceptance of his challenge, but not a denial either. Then, to Mordred’s shock, she spoke. “Will . . . be . . . be . . . tter.” She smiled one of her small, soft smiles, but this time,  _ this time _ , there was the slightest bent of challenge to it.

_ Mordred is six and he looks like he’s sixteen, and he is standing with nineteen other people, about to show off his skills to the court of King Arthur. He is in the armor Mother made for him, and his sword is heavy in his hands. She had told him to never take the helmet off, so off course he wants to destroy it and proclaim who he is to everyone. _

_ She said if he removed the helmet where someone could see him, they would know, and then all their plans, her plan, would be for naught.  _

_ He doesn’t want her to know the dissent that lies in his heart, so he keeps it on, even though the visor constricts his vision and he feels like he is being cooked alive.  _

_ Around him people shift nervously, but he holds still. He is smaller than everyone here, younger too, but he has survived through more than any of these useless nobodies. He hates them, for trying to get in his way, for daring to stand in his path towards King Arthur’s side. He hates them for staying here despite their simple lives, for the fact that they would choose this tournament over such bliss. He hates them for being normal, for having safe homes, for not being subjected to the horrors he’s been through every day of his short life. He will rip through them all on the way to victory, he will not allow himself to lose to the likes of them. _

_ A grin crawls across his face, wolfish and hungry. Sometime during the years he has stopped being afraid of fighting, he revels in it now, the power, the strength, standing above his enemy, victorious. He is Mordred le Fay, and he is not afraid. He is Mordred le Fay, and he is stronger than anyone here. _

_ They are no longer lies he tells himself, but the truth, written into his bones and woven through his blood. He is fearless, and he is powerful, and no one will stand in his way of his prize: the chance to become one of Arthur’s knights. _

_ His first opponent barely lasts three seconds. Almost before the shout to begin ends, Mordred is hurtling across the battlefield. His opponent's eyes widen behind his visor, then Mordred’s feet hit his chest and he is sent hurtling out of the ring. Disqualified. Over before it has truly begun. Mordred snarls under his mask, because it was too easy, too simple. He had expected a challenge, and though he loves the feeling winning gives him, he hates the way he feels like he didn’t earn it. But it doesn’t matter, because he has won, and he will move on while this man does not. _

_ There is a brief pause, then the man directing this event calls his win, and he can leave the ring to allow others to fight. He feels eyes on his armor clad form, he looks around. The Knights of the Round Table are watching him, looking for something though he does not know what. Merlin is watching him too, and he wants to stiffen because the Magus has a good chance of pushing through the illusions cloaking his face, clinging to his helmet. But he doesn’t, because he can see the King’s eyes now, blue-green like a lake or a gemstone, calm and collected. _

_ Something bursts in his heart.  _

_ He has the same eyes as King Arthur, the man he admires so much. _

_ And he is happy. _

_ His second opponent lasts longer, but he too falls, Mordred’s strikes bringing him to his knees within moments. The hilt of Mordred’s sword knocks off his helmet, then the blade touches the man’s throat. Let Camelot’s best watch him, he will prove his worth. _

_ His third opponent does not show. _

_ He fights his fourth opponent and his fifth at the same time. They are the last three standing and Mordred will not allow them to claim a win. He fights like everything depends on it because it does. He does not stop when he is hit, he does not quit when he is injured, he is a beast, always moving, never stalling. One falls to the ground, the other attacks because he thinks Mordred is distracted by the weak one, unable to move because his sword is at the fallen one's throat. He comes from behind, where Mordred’s vision is obscured. _

_ It does not matter, Mordred learned how to fight blind long ago. _

_ He spins halfway as his opponent lunges, lightning jumping off his armor for the first time since the tournament started. The back of his leg hits his enemy’s side and he is sent flying, flying out of bounds and into the crowd, crashing against the ground. Mordred is back to his original position in an instant, his sword has never wavered. _

_ Silence, stunned and all consuming. _

_ Then the crowd goes wild, cheering and whooping. It is invigorating, enthralling, and he almost drops his guard as it hits him. This is for him. These cheers are for him. He has won. And he is one step closer to being King Arthur’s sword.  _

_ He is six and he looks like he’s sixteen, and he is about to become a knight in King Arthur’s court. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra scene:   
> Achilles (gossip senses tingling): Looks like our local Knight of Rebellion likes taller girls.  
> Cu (jumping on the bandwagon): He would have too, he’s friggin tiny.  
> Diarmuid (sighing heavily): You realize if he hears you, you’re dead, right?  
> Achilles (after hearing Gudao talk about London): Oh la l-  
> (Diarmuid pounces to stop him from getting murdered while Cu dies of laughter.)
> 
> Also, hope you've got your tissues handy because next chapter things go down!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today on our semi-regularly scheduled program we have: my incessant need for a Fuuma Alter or any Fuuma content at all, Martha swears, Kairi’s horrible decorative abilities, why Mordred and Beowulf should never ever spar, and the whole reason I wrote this fic in the first place.
> 
> Fun Fact! Diarmuid is the son of Donn, who is either the God of the Dead or the King of the Sidhe depending on which myth you go with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! As always, thank you all for your comments and kudos! They mean the best (and I will treasure the ones I have since there is a very high chance of me getting murdered after this chapter) . . . *nervous laughter* Anyway . . . hope you all have a good day?
> 
> Warning for potential triggers, and a major breakdown from "-and froze" to basically the end of the chapter.  
> You know, just a heads up.

“Do you ever actually spar with people?” Mordred asked Fuuma, not long after they’d cleared the simulation and the dregs of the dream had been driven from his veins. “Or do you just kill imaginary enemies?”

Fuuma rocked back on his heels, his red eyes flashing behind his curtain of hair. “Simulations, mostly.” His voice was calm and collected, clipped as it always was when talking of battle. It was what Mordred had decided to call his business mode. “Simulations offer up a wide variety of enemies, ones that we are likely to encounter in any situation. This allows me to study their fighting styles and work out countermeasures. It is not perfect, but it is better than nothing. Sparring with Servants isn’t the same, as each Servant has a different fighting style. Learning how they fight would only teach me how to fight them, not a wide range of enemies.”

Mordred snorted loudly, leaning on Clarent. “You’re a bit of a control freak, aren’t you?” Or paranoid, either one worked.

“Ah!” Fuuma yelped, his confident demeanor vanishing like morning mist. It was his shy face that Mordred was facing now, the fidgeting fingers and the eyes that glanced anywhere but Mordred’s face, “ Ah . . . no? Preparation . . . maintenance is important.”

Mordred snorted again. “Yeah, like I said, control freak.”

Fuuma sent him the briefest of glares before hiding his face behind his hair again. “Perhaps a bit,” he admitted, “I don’t like . . . I don’t like losing control.”

Mordred glanced down at his sword, the red designs, the silver metal. He thought of Camlann, his all consuming rage, turning his vision crimson and sending his bloodlust sky high. He  _ knew  _ about loss of control, he knew it better than most. He thought of Assassin of Red, sitting on her throne with her snake-like eyes, thought of the simulation Lion King, her face blank and empty. “I don’t know. It can be cathartic sometimes.”

“For some, yes,” Fuuma murmured, “but for others, you don’t realize what you’ve done until it’s too late. And after . . . after you think you would have made the same choices if you got a chance to redo them all over again.” There was a bitterness in his voice, a dark thread of anger and regret that ran under it like a live wire.

“I’m not a good person.” Mordred said, though he wasn’t sure why he said it. But it was true, he was a weapon made for one purpose, the boy who’d brought down the shining Kingdom of Camelot in a temper tantrum, the homunculus that lost sight of everything as soon as rage lifted it’s head. He  _ wasn’t  _ a good person.

Fuuma glanced at him, and for the first time, Mordred caught more than a glimpse of his eye. It was narrowed, with a split pupil, red as his hair, redder. And for a second, for the briefest of seconds, Mordred was afraid, because there was something  _ wrong  _ with that gaze, something almost . . .  _ demonic _ . Fuuma spoke then, and his voice reminded Mordred of ash and smoke, of something burned down and lost forever, impossible to regain. “You’re a better person than I am, Mordred Pendragon.”

Mordred pounded the floor with his fist, exaltation warring with bone deep exhaustion. “ _ I did it!  _ That’s three days you  _ psychopath!  _ Admit it!”

Leonidas chuckled, a deep rumbling sound. “Very well, I believe that you did manage to survive Beowulf’s Noble Phantasm.” He passed Mordred a water bottle and a towel, and Mordred snatched them from his hands with all the strength of a newborn child. God, he felt like jelly, but victory was running through his veins, sweeter than anything. He’d done it.  _ He’d  _ done  _ it! _ Leonidas and his  _ stupid  _ training program could eat  _ shit! _

Applause, brief and spattering, and Mordred turned tiredly to see that Beowulf and Martha had taken a break from their sparring to celebrate his survival. “Good for you,” Martha said, “I do believe you’re the first Leonidas has put through this.”

Mordred blinked at them. “ _ You _ haven’t gone through the fucking  _ torture  _ program?!” He couldn’t believe it, he was going to kill them. All  _ three  _ of them. As soon as he regained his breath.

“It is not torture,” Leonidas protested, “it is training.”

Beowulf laughed, “Not yet. Tempted though, just to see if I can outlast you.” He grinned, wide and sharp. “What are you doing today, little knight?”

Mordred stiffened at the ‘little’ part, then forced himself to relax. “Moving my furniture into my room today.”

“Oh? Is that done?” Leonidas asked, opening his own water bottle. He’d taken part in his horrible training too, not just a drill sergeant today, but struggling by Mordred’s side. Well, less struggling, because  _ apparently  _ he was used to ridiculous training sessions. Asshole.

“Yeah,” Mordred grinned, wide and sharp, “It will be nice to have actually shelves and shit to store stuff.”

Beowulf laughed. “I’m certain it will be. Now, today, after you finally settle in, we are going to finish our battle.” He waved a finger, his grin stretching across his face, “No cutting off my arm this time. I’m kinda attached to it.”

Mordred snarled at him, resisting the urge to facepalm. That had been on Kairi’s level of bad jokes, if not worse. “And no tossing me through the walls either!”

“It seems like you two have that worked out.” Martha murmured, a smile playing on her lips. “Mordred, I do have something to ask you.”

“What?” He ran the towel over his hair, trying vainly to dry it. He could focus on beating Beowulf’s ass later.

“Marie told me some interesting things yesterday,” Martha continued, and Mordred paused, trying to pin down the name. Marie. He’d heard that name before, but where? “Something about you and a certain newly arrived Berserker?” There was a teasing lilt to her tone, and Mordred couldn’t help but frown.

“Fran? What about her?”

“Is there anything you would like to tell us?” 

“No?”

“Mhhmm.” 

Mordred stared at her, very,  _ very  _ confused. “Well, I’m going to take a shower now. Goodbye.” He left to a chorus of farewells, although he swore he heard a hushed, ‘Martha, your not-saint side is showing’ and a muttered, ‘oh fu -’.

He was halfway through breakfast when Fran sat down before him. She was wearing her battle garb, the white dress, the bronze and gold attachments, and she hadn’t grabbed a plate of food. She stared at him, eyes bright behind her bangs, mouth pursed slightly. “Uh.” That one sound was filled with a dozen words. She  _ knew _ , she knew about it  _ all _ .

Mordred shifted slightly. “Look, I’m . . . sorry I didn’t tell you.” Didn’t tell her about their war, about their conflict, about her death. “I didn’t know how.”

She stared at him a few seconds longer, then settled back, shrugging slightly. “Uh.”

Mordred blinked. “You don’t?” She shook her head, and Mordred swallowed sharply. She  _ didn’t  _ blame him,  _ didn’t  _ hate him for killing her. It was a relief, a weight off his shoulders. And at the same time, it blew him away, how easily she took the news. But she was right, it had been a war, and they had been enemies. Nothing personal. “Well, that's good. Friends?” He held out a hand, tried to look like he wasn’t holding his breath.

She looked at his hand, then took it in hers, and shook it once. “Uh.”

It wasn’t until he saw Achilles lounging against the wall outside the workshop that the name Marie clicked in his mind. Marie, CasCu, and Achilles, who, according to Proto, ran the gossip circles.  _ Achilles _ , who’d been there when Mordred had greeted Fran for the first time, and been watching when Mordred had given her some of his food.  _ Marie _ , who’d apparently told Martha that there was something going on between him and Fran. 

Mordred’s eyes narrowed. He was going to kill him. He was going to kill that immortal son of a bitch.  _ “You,” _ it wasn't a word, more like a growl, and he stomped up to Achilles, five feet filled with fury. “What the  _ hell  _ are you telling people about me and Fran?!” 

Achilles opened his eyes and glanced down at Mordred, a grin playing across his lips. “Why are you sounding awfully defensive Mordred?”

“I’M  _ NOT  _ GETTING DEFENSIVE!” Okay, perhaps that was a bit too loud, but Mordred was too annoyed to care. “What the hell are you telling people?”

Achilles raised his hands. “Sheesh, nothing much. Just told CasCu and Marie that you two seemed to get along well. That’s all.” He paused, “Unless there’s something you want to add to that?”

Mordred kicked him, and Achilles yelped, cursing as he rubbed his shin, hopping on one foot. “ _ You _ ,” Mordred growled, “are so  _ fucking  _ lucky that I’m going to get to kick Beowulf’s ass today. But tomorrow, tomorrow you are going to fucking  _ die _ .”

“Nice to see you’re in a good mood this morning.” Achilles grumbled.

“Oh, is Beowulf joining us today?” It was Cu’s voice, and Mordred twisted to see him and Diarmuid headed in their direction. “That’s great! He’s always fun to fight.”

“Should I be worried about the fact that Achilles is hopping on one leg?” Diarmuid asked, a tired look on his face. “Because I would just like to say that it is too early for your normal chaos.”

“You say ‘your’ as if you aren’t as bad as the rest of us.” Achilles shot at him, straightening and setting his foot down.

“How is it too early?” Mordred asked, he’d been up since what, one? Sleep was for the weak and those who had nothing better to do.

Diarmuid sighed, “Do you two not know what day it is?”

“No?”

“It’s the day of the Carnival Singularity.”

There was a beat of silence. “Oh,” Achilles grinned, “Delightful.”

“Which reminds me,” Cu said, “CasCu told me an interest-”

“SHUT UP!”

“Never mind.” He grinned, “However, I do have to say something about your movie choice. That was . . .”

“Horrible,” Diarmuid supplied.

“Hilarious,” Achilles added.

“No, that wasn’t what I was going to ask.” Cu rubbed the back of his head a bit sheepishly. “Was that chosen because of -”

“No,” Mordred interrupted, “It wasn’t.” And it was true, he hadn’t chosen Monty Python and the Holy Grail to piss off Father. He’d chosen it because it looked interesting. Seeing Father’s expression had just been a pleasant outcome. “Are we going to get my furniture or what? I would like to get it situated before I beat Beowulf into pulp.”

“Coffin shaped closets?” Achilles hissed as he maneuvered his closet through Mordred door. They’d already taken out the original closet, and Mordred’s clothes had been thrown into a pile on his bed. 

Mordred snorted, dragging his own through the door. “What, it’s funny.” And they weren’t even closets really, more like dressers, “Wait! What the  _ hell  _ are you doing? Are you blind? That one goes the other way!”

Achilles rolled his eyes skyward and flipped over the dresser. Realization hit him, “Oh my Zeus, they’re interlocking.”

“Yep.” Mordred said, sliding his into place beside Achilles’, watching as the sides fit snugly together.

“I for one,” Diarmuid murmured, entering with the third coffin dresser, “think it’s interesting.”

“Of course you would!” Cu called from the hallway, “Your father is literally the God of the Dead!”

Diarmuid ignored him, “What made you choose coffins?” He asked as he slotted his into place on the other side of Mordred’s.

“My old master was a Necromancer,” he said, “We slept in a fucking tomb for most of our stay in Trifas.”

“Seriously? And to think I had to hang out in a flying fortress.”

Mordred flipped Achilles the middle finger and continued on. “He was a big fan of stupid Halloween shit. He had this,” he snorted, couldn’t help it, it was just so funny, “he had a sleeping bag shaped like a pharaoh's coffin and all this other stupidly gimmicky stuff. I  _ swear  _ half the cobwebs down there were store bought. I guess some of it just . . . rubbed off on me.” He turned to the bed and started to push, hearing the legs scrape across the floor until one side was pressed against the wall. “There we go, now for the table.”

By the time they were finished, Mordred was happy with the way things had been set up. He had one actual book case, not for books but for whatever trinkets he picked up, his three coffin dressers in which he shoved his clothes into, an elaborate jacket hanger stand, a place for his boots and tennis shoes, a small bedside table with a lamp, and an actual table with a couple of chairs, and plenty of room on his walls for decoration. 

He just didn’t know what to put up as decoration.

“You could always put up a painting or a tapestry.” Cu suggested, “me and Emiya have a couple of those. Da Vinci is always happy to whip something up, and there are plenty of people in Chaldea who paint as a hobby.”

“Vases,” Achilles put in, “Put vases on top of the dressers, decorative vases.” 

“Not everyone likes Greek vases, Achilles.” Diarmuid said, “I was thinking about wrought iron decorations. Those tend to be pretty cool.”

“The irony is strong with this one,” Cu muttered.

Diarmuid rolled his eyes. “Only half-fae, Cu. I am fully capable of appreciating wrought iron decorations.”

Mordred shrugged. “The essentials are done, and that’s what matters. I’ll think about decorations later. Now, out of my room before I kick you out.”

“No, wait,” Achilles said, frowning, “We’re forgetting something.”

A beat of silence.

“I  _ swear _ ,” Mordred growled, “if this is about decorations.”

Achilles scowled back at him. “It’s not.”

Cu snapped his fingers. “Rotation, that’s what it’s about.”

“I’m so confused.”

Cu turned to him, grinning widely. “The day after tomorrow, me, Achilles, and Diar go on rotation. But do you also know what day that will be? It will mark your first full week of being a Chaldean Servant! We need to celebrate! Somehow.”

Mordred blinked, then blinked again. _ “Seriously?” _

“He’s right.” Diarmuid said, “Doesn’t feel like a week, does it?”

No, it didn’t. It felt like longer. It felt like forever. “Whatever. Out of my room! NOW!”

Beowulf was already in the sparring room when they got there. His shirt had been discarded, his scars on full display. He grinned when they entered, Cu, Achilles, and Diarmuid carrying chairs and a med kit, Mordred with a cooler full of water bottles. “I see you’re moving as if Leonidas hadn’t tried his best to kill you.” 

Mordred set the cooler down, rolling his shoulders, hearing them click. “Shut up, coward. If you really were as tough as you like to appear, you would have gone through the fucking torture program with me.”

“I still can’t believe Leonidas has a training program,” Cu complained, setting his chair down and sitting. “Why did nobody tell me this?”

Diarmuid sighed, “There are flyers all over the place, Cu. And if you would look on the schedules Romani posts up, you would see that there are times where he is leading classes with Martha and Beowulf.”

“I’ve seen those,” Achilles said, “but I’m already busy with whatever Chiron can think up of that he wants to test out.”

“Can’t be worse then Scathach's training.” Cu said thoughtfully.

“You are always welcome to come.” Beowulf said, “He holds the one designed for Servants in the mornings before breakfast.” 

“I might.”

Mordred shook his head, and slipped off his jacket, folding it neatly and setting it by the cooler. “Your death if you do.” He turned to Beowulf, cracked his knuckles, and summoned his armor in a burst of mana. His helmet clicked up, obstructing his vision, “Well then, are we going to do this or  _ what? _ ”

Beowulf laughed, loud and long, and his two swords appeared in his hands, the chains between his wrists clanking softly. “Just remember to keep the destruction to this room, kid!” He moved, leaping forwards, both of his swords descending towards Mordred’s head. Mordred dodged, twisting around to strike at Beowulf’s back, hearing the crash of his swords against the floor, the crack as it ruptured. 

It was a novel experience, being faster than one of his sparring partners for once. 

Beowulf twisted, one of his blades coming up to bat away Mordred’s attack, twisting even further to strike with the other. Mordred deflected the attack, struck wildly, Beowulf’s two blades crashing against his own. Sparks flew, and Mordred was driven back, feet leaving gouges in the floor. Mordred growled, lightning jumping off his armor as he disengaged and jerked away from Beowulf’s following strikes, cursing widely. Beowulf followed him, chasing after, and Mordred switched tactics.  _ Forget  _ the  _ fucking  _ armor, Beowulf would just break it anyway. He dismissed it, letting it shatter to pieces, slipping through Beowulf’s attacks and through his defense, using hilt, guard, bottom of the blade and fists to batter his sides. The Berserker coughed, stumbled back, dropping one of his blades to grab Clarent with his fist, edges cutting into his hand, twisting hard. Mordred cursed and let go, getting the hell out of dodge as Beowulf swung down his other sword, scooping the forgotten blade in his hand as he did so. 

They faced each other, panting for breath. 

Beowulf’s chest was littered with small bruises and cuts, and Mordred’s wrist ached with the pain from Beowulf twisting Clarent out of his grip.

Mordred bared his grin at the Berserker, all teeth and bloodlust, and they crashed together again. Claret sliced his arm, the blade Mordred held ripped Beowulf’s pants, cutting through skin. Mordred summoned his gauntlet, grabbing Beowulf’s other blade in his grip as he blocked his other swing. He was being driven back, despite the lightning jumping off his skin, and with a yell of fury, he summoned his armor fully again, jerking forwards in a burst of light to slam his helmet against Beowulf’s jaw. His head jerked up, but he didn’t stumble back. Mordred stepped forwards, using the momentum, slamming his heel into Beowulf’s foot. That time there was a grunt of pain, a slight stumble, and Mordred yanked hard on the blade he had grabbed, tearing it from Beowulf’s grip. The blade went skidding across the ground, and Beowulf’s free hand swung around, to grap Mordred wrist, clenching painfully, the metal screaming. Mordred snarled and grabbed the Berserker’s arm, pulling himself up so he could slam both of his feet into Beowulf’s chest. And again, and again, Beowulf forced back each time. He let go of Mordred’s wrist, his fist impacting Mordred’s helm. Metal cracked, Mordred let go, stumbling back, a ringing sound in his ears. He shook it off, but Beowulf was already moving, Clarent striking down, Mordred jerking his blade up to stop it. 

The blow fell like a hammer, and Mordred was driven to the ground, cursing as lightning played off him, keeping him up. He could swear he heard his bones creaking with the force of Beowulf’s blow. He gritted his teeth, and allowed himself to drop, using his mana to shoot away from the impact, sliding across the ground. Clarent drove into the floor with a crash, and shards of metal and concrete flew up from the impact. Mordred pushed himself up, his whole body one big pain-filled ache. He pulled his mana close to his skin, lightning playing around his armor, dancing across the metal, supporting his aching bones. “I thought we were going to try to keep the destruction to a minimum.”

Beowulf looked at the small crater, the groves in the floor, and shrugged. “I said no tossing each other through walls.” His mouth was bloody, a bruise spreading across the bottom of his jaw.

Mordred deconstructed his helm. His gauntlets had faint fractures in them, one almost completely crushed. He allowed his mana to play over them, to close the cracks and strengthen them. Beowulf’s blade felt wrong in his hand. He longed for the comforting weight of Clarent. He grinned, “Harder isn’t it? If you can’t toss me through a wall?”

Beowulf snorted, “Looks like you aren’t making that much traction either. Can you only fight a guy if they’re one handed?”

“Still trying  _ not  _ to kill you.”

“Appreciate it.”

Then they were at it again, blade crashing against blade. Clarent struck against Mordred’s side, he could feel his armor shatter. His heel hit Beowulf’s knee, there was a sharp snap, it gave out. He lost his sword, regained Clarent, grabbing it’s blade and yanking it out of Beowulf’s grip. Beowulf used that opportunity to headbutt him, and for the briefest second, Mordred saw stars. It was enough, and Beowulf picked him up and tossed him across the room. His back hit the wall. There was a loud crack, and Mordred’s breath was driven out of him. He collapsed against the floor, gasping for breath, pushing himself to his elbows. “I thought we agreed on no walls.” The words were pained, he struggled to his feet, weaving, vision fuzzy. 

Beowulf shrugged, two swords back in his hands, stalking forwards. “I didn’t throw you through the wall, did I?”

Mordred snarled. “ _ Fuck _ this.” He felt his mana build, build,  _ build _ , crackling across his skin, jumping off to strike at the ground around him, lightning burning in his veins. He released it in a blast, propelling forward, a blur of red light and fractured silver armor. He impacted Beowulf like a bullet, and the Berserker stumbled back, spinning his swords around to jab the hilts into Mordred’s sides. Twin bursts of pain, Mordred cursed, lightning building, and Beowulf cried out. Something hit his temple, he was too busy channeling his lightning to stop it, and the world went black.

Mordred woke in the hospital, vision blurry, trying to focus on something that wasn’t pain. For a moment his memory was fuzzy, nothing but disjointed images, then it all snapped into clarity. His battle with Beowulf, their struggle, the final blows. “Did I win?”

“No,” it was Diarmuid’s voice, slightly amused but also disapproving. Mordred turned his head to look at him, and noticed that his eyes were as hard and cold as flint. “You knocked each other out.”

Mordred closed his eyes.  _ “Fuck.” _

“Do you know what you did to each other?” And there was a thread of anger through his voice, sharp and dangerous. “You have three broken ribs, one that almost punctured your lung, a crushed wrist, a concussion, and two major slices, one on your arm and one on your side. You almost broke your back, and you tracked blood all over the sparring room. Beowulf is suffering from third degree burns, a bruised jaw and bitten tongue, a cracked rib, a cut on his leg, a broken knee, and a hole in his foot. This does not include the smaller inconsequential wounds that you two suffered. You two are extremely lucky that Chaldea is full of very good healers, otherwise you would be stuck here for weeks. As it is, Nightingale told me to tell you that you are being confined to the hospital for the rest of the day.”

Mordred groaned.

“Also, you are no longer allowed to fight Beowulf.”

Mordred tried to jerk up. “ _ Come on!  _ We didn’t kill each other!”

“No, you didn’t. But it was a very close call.” Diarmuid sighed, running a hand over his hair. “Part of this was my fault. I should have realized that you two were getting too into the sparring session. I know that Beowulf gets very serious in his battles, and I know that you hate losing. I should have expected this outcome. I apologize for this, and I will do better in the future to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

Mordred sighed and allowed his head to drop against the pillow. He was tired, sleep tugging at the edges of his consciousness. “Not your fault. I shouldn’t of . . .” but blackness was claiming him once again.

When he woke next, Irisviel was at his bedside, hands touching the sides of his face, a chill sinking into his skin. For a second he panicked, expecting a burst of pain like there always was when Morgana healed him. But there was  _ nothing _ , no pain, just a pleasant chill. “Imagine,” Irisviel said, “My shock when I get back from the Singularity, and Romani comes rushing up to Gudako and tells her that you and Beowulf destroyed one of the training rooms and where in the hospital, unconscious.”

“You’re healing me.” It didn’t make sense, he didn’t want it to make sense.

“Yes, I am,” she said, her red eyes surprising soft, even if they looked slightly disappointed. “Could you refrain from almost getting you and your sparring partner killed next time? Even Cu manages that much.”

“Fine,” Mordred said, because he was too tired to argue or figure out why the hell she was being so nice to him. He closed his eyes, focusing on the chill of her healing magic. He hadn’t expected it to be so nice, in his experience, healing normally  _ hurt _ .

“Hey, Mordred?”

“What?”

“Thank you for the advice by the way,” Mordred opened an eye to see Irisviel beaming down at him, “It worked.”

For a second it didn’t make sense, he couldn’t figure out what she was talking about, then it hit.  _ Father _ . She was talking about Father. And he wasn’t sure how to feel. Well,  _ whatever _ , he would figure it out later when he wasn’t so woozy. “You’re welcome.”

The next time Mordred woke, he found himself in Fran’s arms, his head resting against her shoulder. He blinked, trying to figure out what was going on, then, realization crashed down. “ _ Gah!  _ What are you doing?! Put me down!”

She held him tighter. “Uh.” Mordred stopped struggling, and she set him down in a chair, gently, as if he was something made of glass or spun sugar. Then she stepped back, and moved to Gudako’s side. Beside Mordred, Beowulf sat in a similar chair, and Mordred noted a bit nastily that he’d been supplied with crutches. Honestly! He could have walked!

“So,” Gudako said, in a dangerous tone of voice, “Would you two like to explain yourselves?” Mordred met Beowulf’s eyes, and slowly the two turned to stare at Gudako. She sat in a chair in front of them, one leg crossed over the other, fingers interlaced, her amber eyes . . . not furious, but not cold either. Carefully controlled. Fran and Mash flanked her like two imposing bodyguards, and Mordred suddenly felt very, very small, despite the fact that Gudako’s shirt's message today was the relatively unimposing INSTANT HUMAN JUST ADD COFFEE. He was pretty sure Beowulf felt the same way. “Because I cannot comprehend what was going on in your brains,” she continued. “You know how I feel about sparring. As long as it is done responsibly, then it is a perfect outlet for cabin fever or bloodlust. And by done responsibly, I mean by dealing injuries that don’t take more than a day to heal. Insignificant injuries, like scratches or grazes or the like. I don’t mean electrocution, or broken ribs, or concussions that send you to the infirmary.” Her eyes flicked between the two, sharp as any sword. “Against an opponent like Achilles, who is immortal unless certain conditions are met, then I am fine with the use of such tactics. But neither of you are indestructible. A ranked Endurance does not mean you have the leeway to tear each other apart in what is supposed to be a friendly spar. So I repeat, would you two like to explain yourselves?”

Mordred sucked in a breath, “I’m sorry Gudako, we got carried away.”

Beowulf nodded. “We are willing to do whatever it takes to make amends.”

Gudako sighed, massaging her temples. “You are confined to the infirmary for the rest of the day and possibly tomorrow as well. After you are released, you both will report to the clean up crew after dinner for the next two weeks. And you two are never allowed to spar again. Ever. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good.” She sighed, stood up. “Fran, take Mordred back to his hospital bed. Beowulf, I’m assigning the bed next to Mordred’s as yours. I want to make sure neither of you try to sneak out.”

“I wouldn’t do that to Nightingale,” Beowulf protested, “I respect her too much.”

“I can walk!” Mordred tried to argue, but Fran was already moving over and scooping him up into her arms. “COME ON!” He winced at the jolt of pain in his side. “ _ At least  _ not in the princess carry.”

Fran looked down at him, one eyebrow raised behind her curtain of hair. “Uh.” The message was clear, he didn’t have a choice in the matter. So Mordred, scowling angrily, shut up.

They were playing cards now, Rummy, a game which Mordred had come to dread. Mash had something to do, something that apparently involved Romani and paperwork, so she had abandoned them with a murmured goodbye. Which left Mordred, Beowulf, and Fran to die by Gudako’s hands. Or Mordred to die by Gudako’s hands, because  _ somehow _ , Beowulf and Fran had managed to figure out the trick to this  _ stupid  _ game and had kept up with Gudako’s point score. Mordred drew a card and cursed. “I  _ hate  _ this motherfucking game.”

“Language.” Gudako muttered.

“Uh.” Fran said, patting his knee consolingly. As if that was going to help. Mordred was still annoyed that she had princess carried him. It was embarrassing.  _ Horribly  _ embarrassing. He could have _ walked! _ It wasn’t as if his legs were injured!

Mordred threw down a card and Beowulf drew. He spoke, his voice a rumble. “Fran, I hope this isn’t insensitive, but, your madness enhancement, does it impair your ability to speak?” She nodded sharply, and Beowulf hummed, “Thought so.”

“What are you leading up to?” Gudako asked, a bit suspiciously.

“I was just wondering if there were any books on sign language in the library.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Shit.” Gudako said, “I should have thought of that.”

“Language,” Mordred muttered.

“You have no room to talk,” she pushed herself up, “I’ll be back.” Then she was off, rushing out of the room.

Mordred turned to Beowulf, “What the  _ hell  _ is sign language?”

Beowulf shrugged, “A way to speak with your hands instead of with your mouth.”

Mordred was about to ask how the hell he knew about it, but he glanced at Fran instead.  _ Oh _ . She had paused, head tilted, eyes wide behind her hair. Surprised, curious, hopeful, it all showed on her face, a mixture of emotions that was tangled but easy to pick out. Mordred turned back to Beowulf. “Good idea, you’re smarter than you look.”

Beowulf smirked, “Thanks, I try.”

_ Mordred paces in the room they left him in, still in his armor, still in his helmet, even though he aches to take it off. He can hear their voices, faint from within the other room, and he’s desperate to know what they’re saying. He’s won the tournament, there should be no debate, so why? Why are they hesitating? He has proven his worth, he is strong and fearless. There should be no discussion. _

_ He stops, then moves to the door, silent as possible, and stands there, ears straining for any scrap of info. He’s not the best at eavesdropping, he’s too loud, too obvious, but he’s had some practice. Sometimes the only way to survive Mother’s training was to know beforehand. So he stands there and listens, and listens, and listens, as the Knights of the Round discuss what they should do with him.  _

_ “You saw him my king,” Mordred does not know the voice, but for some reason he thinks of Sir Agraiven, perhaps because it sounds so unpleasant. “Someone like that, he is not fit to become one of your knights.” _

_ And Mordred freezes, disbelief catching in his throat. _

_ “He was like a beast,” a melancholy voice, almost musical, “something less than human.” _

_ And Mordred feels the rage burn up in his chest, lighting him on fire. _

_ “Yes, Sir Tristan,” and this voice is gentle and soft, a bit deep, “he was a bit rough around the edges. But he was strong, strong enough to end his fights very quickly. Camelot might need his strength soon.” _

_ Relief, a little bit. Someone sees his worth, but he is still angry. _

_ “His appearance,” the unpleasant voice hisses, “we cannot have someone whose armor looks like that as one of your knights, your majesty. He will be a stain on your reign, will terrify enemies and allies alike. You cannot let someone like that be part of your glory.” _

_ “Your armor is pretty bad, Sir Agraiven,” a French voice, which meant that it was Sir Lancelot speaking, “almost as bad as your personality. Yet we don’t hold that against you.” _

_ “He was uncultured,” that melancholy voice, Sir Tristan, spoke again, “using fists and feet instead of blade.” _

_ “Not everyone is born to chivalry, sometimes it must be learned.” And there is power in that voice, and Mordred half-thinks that it belongs to the king, but then someone else speaks, someone who sounds young, voice light and smooth.  _

_ “Sir Gawain has a point, sometimes chivalry must be taught. Is that not why the tournament winner must first spend time with a knight to learn the trade?” Arthur, King Arthur, Mordred knows it in his blood although he’s not sure how. That is King Arthur’s voice, that light, smooth voice that is also somehow distant and cold. “The boy is strong,” King Arthur is praising his strength, “and he did not kill any of his opponents,” King Arthur is praising his restraint. Something bursts hot in Mordred’s chest, different from his previous anger. Pride. Delight. He swears he will follow King Arthur anywhere. “Everyone is rough around the edges in the beginning,” he continues, “However, Sir Agraiven, Sir Tristan, your complaints are noted. I will assign the contestant to Sir Gawain, his presence should balance out any discord the contest’s appearance sows.” _

_ Mordred almost frowns at the last bit, but he is too delighted to be truly bothered. _

_ “Shall we tell the contestant, Arthur?” and it is a sly, lazy voice speaking now. Mordred instantly hates it. “As he is waiting eagerly outside the door for our decision?” _

_ Mordred doesn’t freeze but he wants to. The doors crack open, and Mordred can see the Knights of the Round staring at him. Merlin has a smirk on his face. Sir Agraiven looks pissed. Sir Tristan looks sad. Sir Bedivere gives him the smallest of smiles. Sir Lancelot looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Sir Gawain looks torn between welcoming and resigned. And King Arthur? His face is shadowed, composed and distant, perfect. “Come in,” Arthur speaks, “and tell us your name, contestant.” _

_ He steps in, his armor grating together, and once again he aches to take the helmet off, but he doesn’t. He kneels down, head bowed, “My king.” He’s trying to be respectful, because this is Arthur, beautiful, perfect Arthur, the exact opposite of Mother. _

_ “Your name, please.” _

_ “Mordred, your majesty.” _

_ “Your last one?” _

_ “None, your majesty.” He feels like he’s floating, saying he has no last name. As if he isn’t a le Fey. As if he has no connection to Mother and her magic. He likes the thought, and that is when he decides to no longer call her Mother. She is Morgana, and she has no claim over him, for he belongs to King Arthur now. _

_ “Rise, Mordred, as the most recent of my Knights.” _

_ And he does. _

_ Mordred and Sir Gawain are on patrol, saving people’s butts from monsters and bandits because they are too weak to save themselves. Mordred is on a horse for the first time, and the feeling is exhilarating. It feels like freedom, and he has to resist the urge to kick it’s sides and make it go as fast as possible. He bites his cheek instead, focusing on the pain instead of the wind striking his armor. Sir Gawain has already gotten on him about his wild and reckless behavior twice today, and it is barely past breakfast. He can’t help that he loves the rush of winning, that he hates how people cower at such things that are so simple to defeat. He can’t help that his words are rough and angry, because that is all he’s ever known, and some part of him is afraid if he doesn’t act like that he won’t be himself. But he tries anyway, for King Arthur’s sake. _

_ He does not want to bring darkness to the light that is Camelot, and if acting nicer helps, he will act nicer if it’s the last thing he does. _

_ He just didn’t expect it to be so damn hard. _

_ “Sir Gawain,” he’s not sure what he’s doing, but he’s itching to ask something. Something that’s been bothering him. “You are Morgana’s son, correct?” The words ‘like me’ go unsaid. _

_ Sir Gawain glances at him, the sun making a halo around his head, and Mordred has to resist the urge to grab a handful of dirt and smear it over his clean face, just to prove that it can be done. “Yes.” He says it tightly, “what brings this up?” Trying to be polite, even if he doesn’t want to. Sometimes Mordred thinks Sir Gawain struggles as much as he does with the politeness bit of the chivalric code. _

_ “How did you escape her?” He needs to know, because he knows one day Morgana will check up on him, and then what? He wants to be truly out of her control when that happens. _

_ Sir Gawain gazes at him, then looks away. His hair and eyes are the same pale shade as Morgana’s, not a true gold or blue-green like Mordred’s and Arthur’s. “Well,” he said, and Mordred wonders at the set of his shoulders and the tension in his jaw, “my father, King Lot of Orkney and Lathlain, raised me. Morgana was never a big part of my life.” _

_ Father, it’s a word Mordred has heard before, but this time it catches his attention. Father. Gawain’s father had raised him, had kept him safe from Morgana’s machinations. Mordred tries to imagine what it would be like to have a father. A father, he decides, would be the opposite of a mother. They would build their child up instead of shape them to be a weapon. They would care instead of hurt. They would love instead of use. It is a pretty fantasy, that someone could and would care about him. Mordred does not know who his father is, occasionally he wonders if he has a father at all, but now he hopes. Perhaps a father would save him from Morgana, treat him the way she didn’t, kindly, would look at him with warmth filled eyes, help him up when he fell and parade his achievement proudly, would stand in front of a dark witch and her schemes. _

_ He wants that. The thought hits him hard. He wants a father. If a father is the opposite of a mother, then he wants one. He wants one like he wanted to become a knight for his own reasons instead of Morgana’s. “Must be nice,” he says into the air, and he can’t keep the wistfulness out of his voice. _

_ “It is,” Sir Gawain says, but he’s watching Mordred again with narrowed, suspicious eyes. _

_ Mordred does not notice, too caught up in his dream of a parent who cares. _

Mordred woke, tears stinging the corners of his eyes, his breath struggling in his throat. He felt like he’d been weighed down, ropes tied at ankles and wrists, keeping him contained as he fought for breath. He closed his eyes, opened them again, and forced out a shaky exhale, then a shaky inhale, trying to push away the  _ hope _ , the  _ wish _ , the  _ desperation  _ his dream left him with. He pushed himself up, hoping the action would restore some semblance of himself. He was  _ Mordred Pendragon _ , and he _ did not  _ need his father. He had  _ never  _ needed his father, and right now, he  _ needed  _ a distraction.

His chest no longer ached when he breathed, and the slash on his arm was nothing more than a pink scar, which would fade in a couple of days. He rotated his wrist, there was no lingering pain, and his thoughts felt relatively normal, not slowed or dulled. It wasn’t the quickest healing he had ever experienced, no, any quick healing he’d ever had belonged to Morgana, with the sharp explosions of pain that jerked his body back into proper shape. But it was thorough, and he was fully healed as far as he could tell, and that would be enough.

He sighed, letting his hands fall loosely into his lap. He wanted to leave, to jump out of bed and purge the dream from his system, but he was almost positive that Nightingale was in the infirmary somewhere, and he was not going to risk a bullet to the foot. No, he was going to pull himself together. Forget the  _ stupid  _ dreams, dredging up old memories and dragging past feelings to the forefront of his mind.  _ Forget  _ them. They  _ weren’t  _ important.

Irisviel had confessed to Father, and by her ‘thank you’ Mordred could assume that Father loved her back.  _ That  _ was important. Father was going to be happy, happy and smiling and Mordred had helped play a part in that.  _ That  _ was important. He didn’t need Father to be his father, because Kairi had played that role for the short time they had known each other.  _ That  _ was important. He had to destroy Achilles for trying to spread rumors about him and Fran.  _ That  _ was important.

Not . . . whatever the  _ fucking  _ dream had dredged up, sitting in the back of his throat, making it hard to breath. That  _ wasn’t  _ important.

Mordred swallowed hard, flexed his fingers. He wanted to jump up, to scream and shout and do  _ something _ , because the unease was curling in his veins, the urge to move, the pull to destroy and prove his strength. He was positive that he would be stopped, that Nightengale would stop him, but it surged in his veins like an ever rising tide, urging him to get up, to draw Clarent, to fight. His breath hitched, his fingers tightened into fists. He was left drowning with nothing to hold onto, dragged below the surface of old thoughts and old feelings.

_ Fuck  _ Morgana for the way she treated him.  _ Fuck  _ Father for not caring like he should have.  _ Fuck  _ the rest of the knights, for the way they scattered and broke when Tristan uttered those words.  _ Fuck  _ it all.

He sucked in a harsh breath, felt it rattle in his lungs. Closed his eyes, felt his nails bite into his skin. He tried to even his breathing, to calm the sudden pounding of his heart, but all he could  _ see  _ was Father turning away, face shadowed, quiet as if Mordred had never said anything at all, and all he could  _ feel  _ was the familiar hate bite at his senses, the sensation as Rhongomyniad ripped through him. Why? Why?  _ Why? _ His mind was spinning, sinking below the waves, his next breath felt and sounded like a gasp of pain.

“Mordred?” A rough voice, deep and calm, but the sound felt like it came from far away.

He needed to answer, couldn’t let whomever-it-was find out. What if they told Gudako? Or somebody else? He couldn’t risk it, couldn’t lose . . . “What?” Was that his voice? It sounded more like a sandpaper rasp.

“Are you okay?” And this time Mordred was able to place that voice, Beowulf’s voice. “ I thought for a second there that I heard -”

_ “I’m fine,” _ the words were torn from him, a sharp hiss of anger and pain, quiet so Nightingale wouldn’t hear. “Just a fucking dream, alright? I’m fine.” He turned his head so he could glare at the Berserker in the other bed.

Beowulf was watching him, and Mordred noted that the burns that had covered his skin had faded to nothing, gone without a trace. “Okay, okay.” He hesitated, “want to play some cards? I’m bored just sitting here staring at nothing.” 

A sharp laugh, and something eased in him. A distraction, just what he needed. “Yeah, whatever.” 

Achilles, Cu, and Diarmuid came to collect Mordred in the morning after breakfast, long after Mordred and Beowulf had moved from Rummy to other games. And although it  _ galled  _ him that the Berserker was better at all of them, he still couldn’t help but be slightly thankful that he’d pulled Mordred out of his funk. So it was with a smile and wave that he parted from Beowulf, and a silent, held breath when they slipped by Nightingale, in her office, going through patient files.

“We’re headed to the sparring rooms,  _ right? _ ” Perhaps the words were too eager, but although the card games had helped, the restlessness still surged in his veins. 

Cu shrugged, hands in his pockets, an unconcerned look on his face. “One of the ones that ain’t broken, yeah.” He glanced at Mordred, his red eyes flashing, “you aren’t going to go crazy and destroy it, are you?” And although the message was clear, his sharp, teasing grin softened it a bit.

Mordred scoffed, “No, I’m not. But I owe Achilles a beat down.”

“Hey!”

Diarmuid crossed his arms, fixing Mordred with a glare, “Fine, but I will stop you if I judge things are going too far.”

Mordred mock saluted him. “Yessir.”

“Come on,” Achilles complained, “Don’t I get a choice in this?”

“No.” Cu said, slugging him in the shoulder. “You gossip about one of the Chaos Crew, you get what’s coming to you.”

“I didn’t gossip,” Achilles whined, “I simply put the evidence out there. It was CasCu and Marie who did the gossiping.” 

Nobody deigned that with a reply.

Mordred shrugged off his jacket, folding it gently and setting it down before stretching. It felt like every one of his bones popped with the motion, and he swung his shoulders afterwards, checking for pain. Nothing, he felt good as new, so despite the slowness of the healing, he was going to rank it above Morgana’s, because this felt complete. He summoned Clarent, felt the comforting weight against his palm. Diarmuid had complained about it being too heavy, but Mordred liked it that way, it put more power into his strikes. He summoned his armor, turned around. 

Achilles was already ready, stretching, rotating his foot as if he still had a lingering pain from Diarmuid’s cut to the tendon two days ago. Mordred narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out if it was healed or not. He hoped it was, because he needed a fight, a proper fight, one that would help him ease the boiling in his blood, the violence tugging at his bones.

The dream, the memory, had yet to fade from his mind, and Mordred needed it  _ gone _ .

“Are you ready?” He moved to the center of the room, helm clicking into place, the adrenaline already rushing through his veins.

Achilles straightened, summoned his spear, it came in a flash of white light as he grinned, a mirror to Mordred’s own. “How unlike you to ask before jumping in.”

Mordred shrugged, holding Clarent in both hands, “I thought I’d be generous.”

“Cocky,” Achilles sang, muscles bunching. Mordred didn’t watch, he wouldn’t be able to track him, he just closed his eyes and listened to his breath, coursing in and out of his lungs. “Who was just in the hospital?”

“Your tendon still good?” He shifted his feet, opened his eyes, the lightning building under his skin, not released yet, waiting,  _ waiting _ .

“You’ll find out!” The words were shouted, Achilles blasted forwards, impossible to track with eyes alone. The lightning burst out of Mordred, he twisted, swung Clarent down, knocking away the spear as it came at him. It didn’t stop Achilles, he was already spinning around, going in for another attack, while Mordred listened to his instincts and slapped away every strike. He couldn’t block them all, and the ones that hit cracked against the metal of his armor, but cuts bloomed across Achilles’s cheeks and arms in return, healing as fast as they appeared. The invulnerability was working then, Mordred could go all out.

He snarled under his mask, letting the rage build up, charging forwards to meet Achilles attack. They clashed in the middle, lightning against lightning, and Achilles was driven back a few paces before he managed to throw Mordred off. They clashed again, again and again, and Mordred could hear the cracks of the metal as his armor began to break, but there was no time to fix it, he didn’t care enough to fix it. His heel caught Achilles’ knee, he ducked into the Rider’s guard, slamming his elbow into his chest. Achilles wheezed, then he switched to a one handed grip on his spear and Mordred barely had time to register what was happening before he was tossed over Achilles’ shoulder. His back hit the floor, he coughed, gasped in pain, rolled over and pushed himself up -

“Diarmuid.” 

\- and  _ froze _ .

Father stood there, scanning the room, in a white shirt and dark skirt. Their eyes met, and Mordred’s breath stopped in his throat, strangling him,  _ choking  _ him. Her eyes widened, just a fraction, and Mordred felt the urge to scream build,  _ build _ . This wasn’t happening.  _ This  _ wasn’t  _ happening! _ Then her face, he hadn’t realized it had been open, closed off. Cold, empty, the kingly mask, and suddenly Mordred  _ wasn’t  _ there anymore, he was in a room in Camelot, the sunset painting bloody colors on the walls, his voice rough, Arthur,  _ Father _ , turning away without a sound, as if he’d never spoken, as if he wasn’t there.  _ (Don’t.) _ Father’s eyes shifted from him  _ (No.) _ her voice came as if from far away  _ (Not again.) _ “Diarmuid, if you get a moment, I would like to speak to you.” If Diarmuid replied, if anyone spoke, he couldn’t hear it, because there was a high pitched ringing in his ears, loud,  _ louder _ , painful to withstand. His fingers were shaking, he could feel the rage, bitter on his tongue, burning in his heart. (His throat was raw, Father’s name ripped from it with enough force to draw blood.) An old rage, centuries old, he’d thought . . .  _ he’d thought _ . . . he’d been wrong, because  _ Father  _ had  _ seen  _ him! Their eyes had  _ met! _ AND SHE HAD TURNED AWAY ANYWAY!  _ AGAIN! _

He didn’t remember choosing to run, but he was running, his armor gone, his lightning pushing him away,  _ away _ , because if he stayed the walls  _ would  _ be painted with blood. (He didn’t want Chaldea to be another Camlann. He didn’t want Chaldea to be another Camlann. He  _ didn’t  _ want Chaldea to be  _ another  _ Camlann.) He could feel it, biting, pressing, the urge to go back, to  _ scream  _ and  _ cry  _ and  _ rage  _ as if that would make her  _ look  _ at him,  _ accept  _ him. (If he could not be her son then he would be her enemy.) He wanted to  _ rage _ , to  _ break _ , to  _ push  _ and  _ prod  _ till it all came tumbling  _ down _ . (If he could not follow her without her facing him, he would leave to make her face him.) Why?  _ Why  _ had she turned away?  _ Why  _ had her mask slid so effortlessly into place, as if it hadn’t been removed? He’d been doing  _ better! _ DIARMUID SAID SHE HAD BEEN DOING _ BETTER! _ So _ WHY?! _

_ Cold _ , striking against his face, stinging with a dozen snowflakes. He relished the pain, relished the cold, it shocked some of the anger out of him, but his hands were still hurting and his fists were still shaking and he still  _ couldn’t breathe _ . (She’d turned away.) He  _ needed  _ something to break, to destroy, the lightning burst off of him, moving again, through the snow, as fast as possible. (SHE’D TURNED AWAY.) Clarent in his hands, heavy, he  _ hated  _ it, because he could see  _ her  _ in front of him,  _ her  _ shadowed face, as Clarent came down, cleaving, shattering  _ her  _ armor.  _ (SHE’D TURNED AWAY!)  _ There had been  _ nothing  _ on her face, no pain, no anguish,  _ nothing _ . (NOTHING.) Always, always  _ NOTHING _ . All he needed was  _ SOMETHING _ , but all he got was  _ NOTHING _ . (He was nothing to her, obvious now, looking back. He was nothing to her, so he would make himself be something for her, even if it was her death.)  _ Why? _ He didn’t understand,  _ why? _ (He raised Clarent, brought it down, the crack of rock, shards flying across his face, stinging as if they could distract him from the fire in his heart.)  _ Father  _ was  _ everything _ , had  _ always  _ been  _ everything _ , as long as Mordred could think for himself,  _ Father  _ had been his  _ all _ . His  _ reason  _ to push through what Morgana put him through. His  _ reason  _ to be better than what Morgana wanted him to be. His  _ reason  _ for escaping that hell hole with his sanity intact.  _ Father  _ had been  _ everything _ , was it so hard to ask for one thing in return? A nod, a smile, _ ANYTHING? _ (The sword wasn’t cutting it, he switched to his fists, gauntleted now, lightning playing over the metal as he struck, over and over.) He  _ hated  _ her.  _ No _ . He  _ hated  _ the way she wouldn’t accept him. He wanted to  _ hurt  _ her, to  _ curse  _ and  _ scream  _ and bring something  _ down  _ upon her head. She was his  _ father! _ She was supposed to  _ care! _ Like  _ Kairi  _ had, for those few days,  _ cared! _ (And for the briefest of seconds, Mordred hated Kairi too, hated how he now knew what he was missing, what Father could have been.)  _ Why  _ couldn’t she? Father was  _ perfect _ , the perfect King, always putting her people first. She had drawn the Sword of Selection, knowing the fate that awaited her, had still gone through it all, so why?  _ Why? _ It was just one simple thing,  _ WHY? _

Unless the problem wasn’t with  _ Father. _

Unless the problem was with _ him. _

And it made a sick sort of sense, didn’t it?  _ He  _ was the one who had tried to revoke Morgana’s dream for him but followed it anyway of his own accord. (He dispersed the gauntlets, the next punch hit rock, skin against stone.)  _ He  _ was the one who had destroyed a kingdom just because his father was not the father he wished her to be. (There was a crack with the next punch, a scream building up in his throat, blood shining white against snow.)  _ He  _ was the one who was faulty,  _ too much _ of a knight for Morgana,  _ not enough _ for the Knights of the Round.  _ Too many _ emotions for a weapon,  _ not enough  _ for a human being.  _ Twisted  _ and  _ angry  _ and  _ wrong _ .  _ Not  _ strong enough when it mattered. (Another crack, pain shooting up his arm, vicious, biting, he deserved it, that and more.)  _ Not  _ strong enough to accept Father’s rejection.  _ Not  _ strong enough to walk off that battlefield alive.  _ Not  _ strong enough to save the people he cared about.  _ Not  _ strong enough to destroy Assassin of Red before she had killed Kairi.  _ Not  _ strong enough to defend Gudako in London from the Solomon that appeared. Was that not his whole story? A rabid animal, raging about, strong in arm but  _ not  _ in the ways that  _ counted? _ (The scream burst out, ripped from his throat, raw and painful and he could feel the tears splash across his cheeks, hot against his cold skin.)  _ Weak _ , that was what he was,  _ weak _ . Always,  _ always  _ weak.  _ Not  _ strong,  _ not  _ knightly,  _ not  _ a weapon. A  _ thing  _ that couldn’t be any of those things, a being filled with  _ hatred  _ and  _ false  _ strength and  _ NOTHING MORE. _

“Mordred? Aw shit, Mordred!” 

Mordred twirled, feeling  _ raw  _ and  _ jagged  _ and  _ broken _ , vision blurred from tears and snow. It was Achilles, Cu, and Diarmuid, pushing their way towards them, and disgust rose thick in his throat. He  _ didn’t  _ want them here,  _ didn’t  _ want them to see him like this, swaying with each gust of wind, face red and knuckles bleeding.  _ “GO AWAY!” _ The shout was rough, scraping painfully against his throat. And he  _ hated  _ it.  _ Hated  _ that they were seeing him like this.  _ Hated  _ that he couldn’t stop this anger.  _ Hated  _ how  _ weak  _ he was. 

The three glanced at each other, but it was Achilles that stepped forwards, hands held up in a gesture of peace. Mordred didn’t want peace. He  _ wanted  _ a fight. He  _ wanted  _ to fight. He  _ wanted  _ to purge this anger and hate and the horrible tears and the choked off breath and disgusting feeling of being  _ weak  _ (because he was). _ “DON’T!”  _

Achilles eyes narrowed, he took another step forward. “Fine then, take a swing at me. It will hurt a lot less than punching rock.”

_ “SHUT UP!” _ But his fists were already clenching, he could hear the scrape of bone against bone.  _ Was  _ this  _ all  _ he could do when things didn’t go his way? Lash out? Break and destroy?  _ No wonder  _ Father wouldn’t acknowledge him.  _ Who  _ would  _ want  _ a child like him? Born out of  _ violation _ ,  _ violent  _ and  _ rude _ , a  _ half baked human _ whose  _ only  _ coping mechanism was to  _ kill  _ and  _ kill  _ and  _ kill _ ?  _ “Just shut up!” _

“Look, it’s okay, we aren’t -”

_“I SAID SHUT UP!!!!”_ Clarent in his hands, lightning on his arms, bursting from the sword, straight at Achilles and his stupid mouth that wouldn’t be _quiet_. The recoil drove him back, he hit the rock, shattered and broken from his previous attacks, and fell to the ground, sobbing harder. He _couldn’t_ breath, _couldn’t_ think. He _wasn’t_ strong, _wasn’t_ fearless, wasn’t wasn’t _wasn’t_. “Leave me alone.” Shaking apart, because he _wasn’t_ , simply _wasn’t_ , and would _never_ be enough. Hadn’t he _tried?_ _Over_ and _over?_ Hadn’t he _failed?_ _Over_ and _over?_

“Can’t do,” Achilles again, closer, voice as soft and gentle as he could make it, “because we don’t leave our friends when they’re hurting.” 

Mordred cursed and struck at him, hoping beyond hope that he would hit, but he was blind from the tears, and his punches were weak and Achilles’ hands were on his shoulders trying to steady him and he could hear the others approaching. He  _ didn’t  _ want this, and as he broke down harder, he tried to pull into a ball so they couldn’t see the mess he’d become. He  _ didn’t  _ want this,  _ hated  _ it.  _ Hated  _ them for seeing him like this.  _ Hated  _ Father for turning away again.  _ Hated  _ himself for reacting like this.  _ Hated  _ himself because he wasn’t strong.  _ Hated  _ himself because he was  _ terrified _ .  _ Terrified  _ of his  _ weakness _ .  _ Terrified  _ of his  _ reactions _ .  _ Terrified  _ at the anger that ate him up, burning and  _ burning  _ hot in his veins. 

He  _ wasn’t  _ Mordred Pendragon, the strong, the unafraid. He  _ wasn’t  _ Mordred le Fay, the weapon wanting more. He was Mordred, the boy who would  _ never  _ be enough,  _ not  _ for himself,  _ not  _ for others.  _ Not  _ strong.  _ Not  _ brave.  _ Not  _ wanted.  _ Not  _ enough. Just . . .

just  _ not _ .


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring: Me, panicking, looking up how therapy works, the Chaos Crew plotting, the connect the dots game beginning, Mordred’s good friends, Gudako being put in the loop, and how many times I can stick Rhongomyniad in a sentence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YO, everyone, I am absolutely blown away by your feedback, thank you all so much! I really appreciate it! This chapter was supposed to be uploaded yesterday in celebration of Artoria's (fake) birthday, but it wasn't ready, my apologies about that, but its up now! Anyway, thank you all so much again and I hope you have a wonderful day!
> 
> As always, trigger warnings, so please be careful.

Cold, wet and freezing, plastering his jeans to his legs from where he knelt in the snow, but Diarmuid didn’t feel it. In front of him, Mordred was curled into a ball, face pressed against his knees, arms wrapped around his legs, knuckles bruised and bloodied, bone poking out of the flesh of one arm, shoulders shaking as he cried as if he would fall apart. Achilles held his shoulders, Cu knelt at his other side, red eyes wide and panicked. They were all panicking, really, because what could they do when their friend broke down as completely as this?

Diarmuid felt like he’d been punched, because he’d forgotten. Forgotten that, knight he may be, Mordred was still a kid. A kid from a shitty household, with a pathetic excuse for a mother, and a father who was still working through her own difficulties. What had Artoria been thinking? He couldn’t . . . whatever, he would talk to her tomorrow when he would be able to face her without yelling. Right now, they had to help Mordred, and as great as Achilles and Cu might have been, they were no good with children.

“Let go of him,” he murmured to Achilles, and Achilles let go with an almost comically terrified look. Any other time it would have been hilarious, but Diarmuid couldn’t laugh now. He scooted forwards, looping an arm around Mordred’s shoulder and pulling him into a hug, ready for the small Saber to put up a fight. But there was nothing. Just a shaking, sobbing, hiccupping sound. “It’s okay Mordred, we’ve got you. Just breathe, okay? Just breath.” Diarmuid spoke softly, rocking back and forth in the snow, letting Mordred cry himself out. Sometimes that was for the best, just to simply let the tears flow.

He had certainly felt better, such a long time ago.

_ “What do we do?”  _ Cu asked telepathically, even as he shuffled forwards to rub circles into Mordred’s back.

Diarmuid glanced between the two,  _ “Stay with him, and let him go after he’s calmed down, and then, then we figure out how the hell we’re going to fix this.”  _ Because it needed to be fixed. Because there was no way he was going to allow things to lay broken like this.

By Lugh, what had Artoria been thinking? Because Diarmuid knew her, they’d been friends from the beginning, and Artoria, no matter how much she disliked someone, wasn’t the type to push a person to this purposefully.

Achilles started talking, some random nonsense about Chiron’s training sessions, complaints and antidotes, a monologue of stories, and Diarmuid hoped that it would help.

He glanced at the rock, the mountainside, the blasted snow, the scorched and shattered stone, smeared with blood, and anger rose. His anger had never been fiery like Cu’s or Achilles’ or Mordred’s, no, it had always been cold, slow to build up, impossible to stop once it got going. But right now? Right now he wanted to chase down Artoria and shake her, shake her over and over until she got the message that whatever had just happened was not okay and needed to stop. 

Mordred was shaking less now, hiccupping sobs dispersing, and Diarmuid moved away, Cu retracted his arm, giving him space to pull himself together. Achilles didn’t stop his stupid stories, just continued on about he had almost drowned because apparently immortality didn’t mean shit if his lungs were full of water. Slowly Mordred uncurled, wiping his cheeks, leaving bloody smears across his skin, standing, swaying, looking down at them all. “Well?” His voice was rough, shaky, confrontational, but his eyes were dull, “Aren’t you going to say something?”

“It’s okay, you know?” Cu said, immediately, “It’s okay to cry if you need to. And we’re here for you, we’re your friends, we’ll always be here for you.”

Mordred sneered, but there was no strength behind it. “Whatever,” his voice shook, his shoulders dropped. “I’m off. This never happened. Don’t follow me.” He started walking, trudging through the snow, looking dejected and tired and mournful.

“Wait!” Achilles cried, and Diarmuid could have cursed him. What had they literally just talked about? But it wasn’t an ‘are you okay,’ or a ‘are you sure that’s a good idea’ it was a “Med-kit should be below the sink to the right, if you have trouble finding it again.”

Mordred stiffened, then continued on, his hoarse “Thanks” barely audible.

They watched him go, his form disappearing into the snow and the wind in the general direction of Chaldea. Diarmuid turned to his friends. “An hour. We give him an hour and if he hasn’t come out of his room by then, we go check up on him.”

“We need to tell Gudako,” Cu’s voice was soft, snow striking against his cheek and melting.

“Mordred won’t like that,” Achilles sat back down, cross legged, brows furrowed.

“You think I don’t know that?” Cu snapped. He snapped, sighed, ran a hand over his hair. “It’s like you and Hector, but a lot less murdering each other and more . . . Gudako needs to know. Diar, back me up here, I know you’re thinking of something.”

And the thing was, Diarmuid was thinking of something, mind turning over the situation and the reactions and the possible solutions. He’d always been good at problem solving, at adapting, it was part of the reason he could defeat Fionn at chess while no one else could, how he could keep up with people so much stronger than him. “Gudako is our Master,” he said, “if we keep this from her, it will blow up in everyone’s faces sooner rather than later.”

Achilles sighed, “Fine.”

Diarmuid tapped his finger against his knee. “I think we’re in accordance when I say that we have to do something.”

“But what?” Cu threw up his hands. “Telling Gudako is one thing, but deliberately orchestrating something? Deliberately messing with his problems?”

“We’re the Chaos Crew, we mess with everyone's problems.”

“But Mordred is part of the Chaos Crew, we can’t go behind his back on something major like this!”

“And you think he’ll allow us to help? He won’t, Cu, going behind his back is the only way we’ll be able to begin to fix things.”

“And I assume you have a plan?”

“The beginnings of one, yes.”

A beat of silence, then Cu sighed, “Well, let's hear it.”

Diarmuid nodded, pressed his fingers against the snow, feeling the cold sink into his bones. “Achilles, out of all of us, you know rage the best.” Cu opened his mouth to argue, but Diarmuid continued, “Hell, you still can’t talk to Hector without attempting to kill him. I need you to work with Mordred when he gets angry like that,” he gestured to the rocks, to the bloodstains. “This, this isn’t okay. If you see him enter that state, pull him to the side, let him vent on you, you’ll be able to take it. And please, don’t let him hurt himself again.” He sighed, heavily, “I’ll talk to Artoria, figure out what’s going on on her end. Something like this, it’s never just one sided, and we won’t be able to know what to do until we figure out how she feels about this.” He paused, thinking.

“And what about me?” Cu’s voice was soft. 

“You speak to Emiya, see what he can do.”

“Emiya, he doesn’t hate Mordred, but he doesn’t like him either.”

“I know, but it’s something.” Diarmuid sighed, frustrated and tired, “you should also be the one to tell Gudako.” He bit his lip, continued on, “Actually, out of all of us, you’ll be the best for Mordred to hang out with. I don’t think he’ll want us to ask questions or to push, and you’re the best at pretending everything is normal.” And it was true, Achilles wore his emotions on his sleeve, and when Diarmuid was bothered, he closed off, but Cu . . . Cu was always cheerful, always laughing. It was his default expression, as much a mask as Diarmuid’s own blank face. “I don’t want him to be alone for the next few days.”

“He’s alone now.”

Diarmuid shook his head. “Not for long.” 

“What about tomorrow?” Achilles asked, the first time he’d spoken in a while. His face was dark, concerned, “We’re on rotation.”

“Shit.” Diarmuid said.

“I can talk to Proto,” Cu offered, “I won’t tell him what's going on, just suggest that he spar with Mordred tomorrow. He’ll leap on the chance.”

“Okay, anyone else we want to bring in on this?”

“Irisviel,” Achilles said, “I think bringing her in on this would be a good idea.”

Diarmuid closed his eyes and nodded, “Yeah, definitely a good idea.” Then, silently, he thought,  _ “Fran, I know you don’t know me, but I am Diarmuid, one of Mordred’s friends. I was wondering if you could check in on him? I think he's in his room , but I’m not sure. I’m worried about him, and . . . I don’t think he will want to see me right now.” _

_ “ . . . yes . . . ” _

Mordred pulled the med kit out from under the sink, ignoring the sting from his wounds and the grate of bone in his arm. His voice still came in shaky gasps, he was trembling, and he didn’t know what to  _ do _ . The rage had dispersed, gone, and he was left feeling empty and numb and terrified that it would come back and paint his vision red again. He didn’t want that, didn’t want . . .  _ didn’t want _ . . . loss of control. 

He  _ didn’t  _ want to lose control.

Someone knocked on his door, soft and insistent. He froze,  _ hoping  _ beyond hope that they would go away, hoping whomever it was would give up and leave. The knocking continued, and Mordred sighed heavily, trudging through the bathroom, depositing the med kit on his bed, and opening the door. He expected to see Achilles or Cu or Diarmuid, was ready to shoo them off with a ‘I don’t need your fucking pity’, but it wasn’t any of them, it was  _ Fran _ , standing there in a new dress and a messenger bag slung over her shoulder. The words died and curled up in his throat. “What are you doing here?” For a long time, she didn’t speak, just stared at him, and Mordred wondered what she saw. The blood, the bruises, the broken bone, the tired eyes, red from crying. A mess, basically, a  _ mess _ , and Mordred felt a little bit of bitterness rise in the back of his throat. “That bad, huh?”

Her eyes softened, “Uh.”

He hesitated, then let her in, closing the door behind her. She set her bag down on the table, grabbed the med kit, and looked at him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Yeah, yeah.” He walked over, sat down as she opened the kit and started going through the bandages. “I can do it myself,” a token protest, and his heart wasn’t in it.

“Will . . . you . . . be . . . okay?” Soft and quiet and slow, each word pulled out as if it hurt. 

Some of Mordred’s numbness shattered. “ _ Hey _ , you know I understand you, don’t tire yourself out.” She gave him a look, then gently grabbed his broken arm and laid it across her lap, taking the splints from the kit. “Just get it over with.” Another look, then a burst of pain, the horrible sound of bone grating against bone, as she reset it. She set the splints, began to wrap his arm. “Thanks.”

_ “Answer . . . the . . . question.”  _ Her telepathic voice was just as slow and soft as her real one, as if she had to stop so she could search for the words.

“I’m serious Fran, you  _ don’t  _ -” She glared at him, and the words died in his throat. “Fine, do what you want.”

_ “I . . . want . . . you . . . to . . . answer . . . the . . . question.” _

_ “Fine,” _ it came out sharp and angry, and he regretted it immediately.  _ God _ , he was . . . he took in a sharp breath, trying to prevent another descent before it could begin. “I don’t know. I don’t  _ fucking  _ know.” She stayed silent, smearing antiseptic over his bloodied knuckles, eyebrows furrowed. “Fran?” And he hated how quiet he sounded, how scared, how young. “Do you ever wonder if it’s your fault that your father doesn't want you?”

She paused, frozen for the longest of seconds, then she looked at him, eyes dark behind her bangs.  _ “All . . . the . . . time.” _

Mordred screwed up his face. “I didn’t, not . . . not until today.” He felt the urge to throw up, the wild urge to break something again. But  _ where  _ had that left him? With a  _ broken  _ arm and  _ bloodied  _ knuckles and  _ lashing  _ out at his friends with dangerous levels of lighting. It was obvious now, plain as day, that he was  _ nothing  _ but a broken weapon. Kairi was wrong, he would not have been a good king.

_ “I . . . have . . . from . . . the . . . beginning.”  _ Fran went back to wrapping his wounds, a small frown on her face.  _ “Broken . . . failure . . . monster . . . that . . . is . . . what . . . he . . . called . . . me.” _

“But you're not.” And it was true, Fran may have had trouble speaking, she may have had trouble expressing her feelings, but she wasn’t broken, she wasn’t a failure, and she wasn’t a monster.

_ “And . . . neither . . . are . . . you.” _ She set his hand down, grabbed his other, rubbing the blood from his skin.  _ “We . . . are . . . flawed . . . yes . . . but . . . so . . . is . . . everything. . . Nothing . . . is . . . perfect.”  _ She looked up, eyes bright.  _ “I . . . have . . . found . . . that . . . people . . . judge . . . too . . . quickly. . . Each . . . other . . . ourselves. . . Pushing . . . ideas. . . onto . . . others . . . ones . . . that . . . they . . . might . . . not . . . want . . . or . . . understand.” _

“You think that’s what I’m doing to Father.” He wasn’t looking at her, glaring at the wall.

_ “I . . . think . . . Morgana . . . did . . . it . . . to . . . you. . . I . . . think . . . Artoria . . . did . . . it . . . to . . . you. . . I . . . think . . . you . . . did . . . it . . . to . . . yourself . . . and . . . to . . . her.”  _ She paused, and Mordred noticed that her hands were shaking when she set the bandages down. She was wearing herself out, speaking like this, even telepathically.  _ “I . . . don’t . . . think . . . it . . . is . . . something . . . you . . . can . . . avoid.” _

For a while, they didn’t talk, just sat there in silence, until finally Mordred spoke. “I’m a weapon.” It was said sullenly, as if he was trying to win an argument he’d already lost.

Fran tilted her head.  _ “You . . . are . . . whoever . . . you . . . want . . . to . . . be. . . No . . . one . . . makes . . . that . . . choice . . . but . . . you.” _

Mordred took a deep breath, and realized it came easier, because . . . because Fran was  _ right _ . No one got to say who he was but him. He had rejected the name of le Fay, had turned from the path Morgana had laid out for him, had become a Knight of the Round table. Father hadn’t done that. He’d done that. He had grown past his hatred, had toppled an Empress and her flying gardens. He . . . he was Mordred Pendragon, and he’d made mistakes, and now he had a chance to fix them. Hadn’t Diarmuid said that the very first day he’d arrived? That Chaldea was a place for second chances? 

_ “Who . . . do . . . you . . . want . . . to . . . be?” _

“A good king.” Said immediately, “I want to help Gudako save the world, so her Servant I guess. I want to be better than I have been. To make better choices, to understand myself better so Camlann doesn’t happen again. I . . . I want to be happy.”

Fran smiled at him, bright and delighted.  _ “Good. . . I . . . believe . . . that . . . you . . . can . . . do . . . it.” _

“Thanks Fran.” He grinned at her, a shade less than his normal grin, but a grin nonetheless. “For the record, your father’s a fucking  _ idiot  _ for thinking you’re broken. You’re not, you’re better than most of the people I know.” She stared at him, eyes wide as if he’d said something completely unexpected. “But, I’ve got to ask, how did you know I was in here?”

She shook her head slightly,  _ “Your . . . friend . . . was . . . worried.” _

He froze, Achilles and Cu and Diarmuid. “I don’t need their pity.”

She glared at him,  _ “Not . . . pity . . . worry . . . because . . . they . . . care.” _

He swallowed hard. “Oh.” She nodded, standing and grabbing the med kit, putting it up and bringing back a damp towel, passing it to him. He took it numbly, began to wipe his face free of blood, watched Fran pull a book out of her bag and sit down again beside him. “Is that the sign language book Gudako found?”

“Uh.” She nodded, head bobbing up and down. She paused, glanced at him, tilting her head curiously. “Uh?” She’d run out of energy to properly speak, but for Mordred, it didn’t matter. He understood her anyway.

“I can try, but I’m a shit reader.”

Fran smiled at him briefly, and opened the book, placing it between them, and Mordred, feeling as if he could breath once again, leaned over to try to make sense of the drawings. Mentally, he added another thing to the list of things he wanted to be; a good friend, like his own friends.

An hour later, Mordred and Fran were stumbling through sentences with their hands. He felt . . . better, way better, in a weird sort of way, as if he’d needed to get that off his chest. Perhaps he  _ had _ , perhaps it had been sitting under the surface of his skin, festering with every forced down emotion. But now it wasn’t hidden any more. Achilles and Cu and Diarmuid  _ knew _ , Fran  _ knew _ , and he felt better. A bit mortified,  _ yes _ , a bit terrified about how the Chaos Crew would treat him,  _ yes _ , but relieved as well. Because he  _ wouldn’t  _ have to hide his breakdowns again. 

The door burst open, banging against the wall, and Mordred yelped, jumping back, armor clicking over his  skin , Clarent falling into his hand. Cu poked his head in through the door, a shit-eating grin on his face, “Guess who’s got cake?”

Mordred was  _ utterly  _ and  _ completely  _ lost. “What?”

Cu walked in, carrying a large platter in his hands. Achilles and Diarmuid walked in behind him, Achilles with a cooler and Dairmuid with what looked like ten board games. “Cake, Mordred, try to keep up,” Cu continued, “Hey Fran, and Mordred, what the hell are you doing in your armor? Take that shit off, we are here to eat cake, drink soft drinks, and play board games. Also, we’ve got your jacket.” Numbly, Mordred discarded his armor as Cu set the platter down and whipped open the top, revealing a large cake with white icing. “Fresh from the kitchens,” Cu said, smugly, “who says it doesn’t pay off to be dating a chef?”

“All it cost him was one make out session.” Achilles said dryly, setting the cooler down, glancing at Mordred, eyes almost gentle. “What do you want? We’ve got a little bit of everything. And here,” he tossed something at Mordred, and Mordred caught it. Red leather, silver zippers and buckles, his jacket. The one he’d left in the training room. The one that reminded him so much of Kairi.

“How’s the arm?” Diarmuid asked, his voice much calmer compared to Cu’s and Achilles’. He set down the board games boxes and started to go through them, pulling out one and setting it on top. 

“I -” he looked at Fran, who was smiling slightly at him. 

_ See? _ She signed slowly,  _ Worried.  _

Fuck, she was  _ right _ . He looked back at the Chaos Crew. There were no ‘I’m sorry’s or ‘never do that again’s or other pitying remarks. They had barged in with cake and drinks and games to make him feel better.  _ Shit _ , he had good friends. He’d really lucked out. “Fran reset it. It wasn’t that bad.”

“Uh.” Fran said, disagreeing, standing and brushing off her skirts. “Uh.”

“Wait, no! You don’t have to leave,” Achilles said, glancing between Mordred and Fran as if he’d struck gold, “In fact, stay a while, play a couple games, I’m sure Mordred would love to have y - OW! Cu!”

Cu ducked away from Achilles retaliation punch while Diarmuid pinched his nose and sighed heavily. “We literally had a conservation earlier about how gossiping on Chaos Crewmates is forbidden.”

“I wasn’t gossiping!”

Mordred rolled his eyes, unable to keep the grin off his face. “You can stay if you want Fran, although I wouldn’t blame you if you left.” 

She glanced at him, glanced at Cu and Achilles who were now wrestling, and then at Diarmuid who was trying to pull them apart. She smiled, and sat down.

Mordred grinned wider at her. “Great!” Then he turned to his other friends, “You two, stop wrestling, you’ll break something. Diar, what game are we playing?”

Diarmuid pulled back from the two men - children, amber eyes flashing. “Well, I was thinking we would start with Battleship.”

Cu left around lunchtime, having been the designated one to grab food. They had moved on from Battleship to Monopoly and were now working on Scrabble. Surprisingly, Fran had been winning at Scrabble so far, using long scientific words that nobody knew and couldn’t be bothered to check if they were real or not. He was partly glad he’d managed to duck out of the next game, because between Fran’s crazy long words, Diarmuid’s strategic placing of words, Mordred’s competitiveness, his own competitiveness, and Achilles spelling stupid stuff like to, too, at and no, Scrabble was becoming just as dangerous as the others had been.

Thank Lugh they were done with Monopoly, that game had almost spilled blood.

He sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets as he made his way into the cafeteria. He’d been surprised how much better Mordred had looked. The redness was still there in his eyes, his hair was still tangled, and his arms had been bandaged, but beyond that, it was almost as if nothing had happened. Which was bullshit and everyone knew it. 

Which was why Gudako had to know.

He scowled at the ground, darkly, because even though he’d been the one to bring it up, he didn’t like this, not one bit. Something this personal was for Mordred to say, but obviously, he wasn’t going to talk about it of his own violation. Cu hated going behind Mordred’s back, but . . . but Gudako wasn’t like so many of the Masters he had known. She cared, cared about each and everyone of her Servants. The villains, the heroes, the monsters, every single one she welcomed with open arms and an open mind. This, this would be the same. She would know what to do, and she needed to know.

Didn’t mean he had to like it though.

He stopped to lean against the wall, dropping his head against the metal. It was after lunch, Gudako should be back by now, he had to try.  _ “Gudako, can you spare a second? I need to talk to you about something.” _

_ “Yeah, what’s up?” _

_ “It needs to be said in person.” _

_ “ . . . Okay, Office 16, five minutes.”  _

_ “Yeah, okay.” _

Cu was pacing when Gudako entered the room. She hadn’t changed from her uniform yet, so she must have just gotten back, and he wasn’t sure whether he should curse his luck or thank it. “What do you need to talk about?” It was her serious voice, the one she used in Singularities and battles and to order people about when they’d messed up. She must have heard something in his voice, or perhaps it was his posture. Something at least had alerted her to the fact that this was serious.

Cu swallowed and sat, scratching at his hair. “It’s about Mordred, something . . . something happened today.”

“What happened?” A trace of worry in her tone, well hidden but there all the same.

“Artoria came into the sparring rooms this morning. She needed Diarmuid for something, not sure what, but when Mordred saw her he . . . froze up? And then, he ran, ran out of the training room. We couldn’t find him until . . .” Until they’d heard the scream, the sound filled with hatred and anguish in equal measure. He hadn't thought that scream could belong to any human, but they had checked it out anyway, just to see, and it . . . “He was outside, and he’d been . . . he’d . . . well, when he saw us, he just kind of broke down.” He thought of Mordred’s eyes, shining bright through the snow with unshed tears. “He collapsed, sobbing, and it took us a while to calm him down.”

For a little bit, she was silent, then she spoke, her voice very soft. “Is that all?”

Cu looked at her. “No.”

“Are you going to tell me what else happened?” He shook his head and she sighed, “Does Mordred know you’ve told me this?”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Okay, okay,” she scrubbed her face, “here’s what we’re going to do. You and the rest of the Chaos Crew support him, okay? You’re his best lifeline. I’ll rearrange who I was going to put him on rotation with. And I’ll talk to him, I’ll give him a day to calm down, but I’ll talk to him.” She swore, sharp and sudden and Cu jerked his head to stare at her. “This couldn’t have come at a worse time. Da Vinci just made a breakthrough with the Babylonian Singularity, she’s certain that she’ll be able to get us there safely by the end of the month.” She sighed, a heavy thing, then smiled at Cu. “Thanks for telling me, I know it’s hard, but thanks.”

Cu nodded, “You’re welcome,” then he pushed himself up and left, closing the door behind him softly. He stopped, staring. “Lilly?”

The Saber stood there in a white dress, eyes wide, watching him. “Is everything alright?” She asked in her childish voice, so different from Artoria’s normally composed tones and Mordred’s wild volume.

No, it wasn’t. “It will be,” he grinned at her, “Looking for Gudako?” She nodded rapidly, pony tail bobbing with the movement, and Cu jerked a finger at the door. “She’s in there.” 

“Thanks!” A short curtsy, then she slipped past him, inside the room, and he sighed, running his hand over his hair. He had enough problems to deal with, he didn’t need to poke his nose into Lilly’s too. With another sigh, he shoved his hands in his pockets and left. He had food to get.

He didn’t go directly to the cafeteria after that, instead slipping into the kitchens. Bodica met his eyes, smiled, and tilted her head to the side. He grinned tiredly at her, then followed her silent directions to one of the back rooms. There was Emiya, sleeves rolled up, washing dishes with a content expression on his face. Cu could feel himself relax at the sight, some of the tension and unease slipping away. Cu moved up behind him, buried his nose in his neck and wrapped his arms around the Archer’s waist. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Emiya leaned back, and Cu could feel his muscles bunch and flex with each circle of suds he drew on his plate. “Everything okay?” Cu let out a barely audible growl, and Emiya laughed softly, “I’m going to take that as a no.” The briefest of hesitations. “Would you like to talk about it?”

“Not right now,” he mumbled, hugging Emiya tighter, breathing in his scent, apples and baked goods and cinnamon, comforting as always, “just want you.”

“Sap,” Emiya said, as if he wasn’t just as bad behind closed doors. He went back to washing dishes, and Cu unburied his face so he could set his chin on Emiya’s shoulder, watching him work. Four plates later, Emiya spoke again. “I don’t mind you hanging on to me, but at least be useful and dry the plates for me.”

“You could,” Cu suggested, playfulness in his tone, “let the robots handle it, like they’re supposed to.”

Emiya gave him a look. One that, although blank faced and serious on the surface, hid laughter underneath. Cu grinned at him, dropped a kiss on his neck, then moved over to start drying plates, silence laying easily between them. They didn’t need to speak to know the other was there, the bumped shoulders and elbows did that for them. And by the time Achilles’ voice blasted into his mind, Cu felt better about his choice.  _ “Where the fuck are you? We’re starving over here!”  _ A brief pause before,  _ “does Gudako know?” _

_ “Yeah, she does.”  _ He stepped back from the dishes, stretched. “I have been summoned.”

Emiya raised an eyebrow, “By who? And don’t say the Chaos Crew, you guys are normally done by now.”

“The key word there is normally.”

“No, the key word there is done.”

Cu stuck his tongue out at him, “Well, we’re having a massive board game party in Mordred’s room. I was sent to get lunch. Would you like to fetch it with me?”   
Emiya snorted, “As you can see Cu, I am quite busy.”

“Yes, busy stealing the poor robots’ jobs. Look at them, you’ve hurt their feelings” He pointed to where a washbot hovered awkwardly by the counter, somehow managing to project an air of dejection and confusion.

Emiya huffed a laugh, “Fine, fine. I’ll come. Wouldn’t want to give the poor robot a heartbreak.”

“No, we wouldn’t want that.”

They left the kitchens laughing, leaning on each other, fingers intertwined.

_ Mordred is nine and he looks like he’s sixteen, and he’s standing in the courtyard, helmet deconstructed as the wind plays with his hair. He has long since stopped caring about who knows and who doesn’t know about his face, even though he’s pretty sure that most of the knights are clueless to his mother's identity. Sir Gawain might know, but he is too deep in mourning for Sir Gareth to call Mordred out on it. Mordred understands, Sir Gareth was one of the few he could get along with, and now she is dead by Lancelot’s hands. _

_ Camelot is falling apart at the seams. _

_ The sun is setting, the sky painted gold. Mordred can see King Arthur on the top of the tower, his cloak yanked by the wind, his crown glittering in the descending light, staring down at his lands below. Three years he has served the king, and though he doesn’t get along well with most of the knights, Sir Agraiven, Sir Tristan, and Sir Galahad to name a few, these three years have been the best of his short life. He hates the fact that it feels like it’s ending, even if he doesn’t know why. _

_ No, he knows why.  _

_ Camelot is falling apart.  _

_ First with Sir Tristan leaving, those lies and insults leaving his lips. Then with Sir Agraiven, now dead, who had nosed into business that was not his. Finally with Sir Lancelot, who loved the queen, fled, then came back and killed Sir Gareth to save her. The whispers have started up again too, that a perfect king is not a good king at all. _

_ But as long as King Arthur keeps on standing, none of the rest matters. He is the glue that holds Camelot together, the beating heart of the kingdom. With him at the head, they will not fall. _

_ The shadows darken, the light dims, and his breath catches in his throat, sharp, sudden, fear spiking through his veins. He is fearless, but there is one who can install this bone deep terror and anger in him. He has run out of time, Morgana is here. _

_ “For how long do you intend to keep playing knight?” Her voice is sharp, anger barely hidden. _

_ He turns, sees her steeping from a shadowed corner. “Mother?” The word is ripped from his lips, disbelief and horror forming the word before he can change it to Morgana. _

_ And her next words tilt the world on it’s head. “You are the heir of King Arthur. Your life is also proof of his existence. You are the child of the King!” Her voice is wild, as if she’s lost control, but he knows that can’t be true, Morgana does not lose control. He almost wonders at the act, but something else catches his attention. _

_ ‘You are the child of the King.’ _

_ He can feel his eyes widen, disbelief paints itself across his face. “Me?” The world is spinning around him, colors flashing by, a blur, it cannot be true, but it feels like it is. He turns, stares up at where Arthur watches his kingdom. “I am King Arthur’s . . . son?” And he smiles, even though part of him is disgusted because Arthur is his uncle, but that disgust is soon washed away with overwhelming glee. He has wished, for three years he has wished for a father, one who would love him, one who would care for him. And he has a father! _

_ And he is the King! _

_ Not Mordred le Fay, but Mordred Pendragon! And the words click together as if they were always meant to fit that way. He is ecstatic, he knows who he is now. Not the weaponized bastard of a dark witch, but a prince! _

_ And his father is King Arthur! Perfect and shining King Arthur, and Mordred can’t help but be gleeful. How could he not? His dream is coming true! He has a father! He has a father! The best of fathers! And the smile is growing on his face, wider and wider because he could see it, days stretching out by Arthur’s side, not just as his knight, but as his son. It is perfection, something he would never have thought possible. Who would have believed that his dream is coming true? _

_ “You won’t recognize me as your son? That is your answer, King of Knights?” His voice is shaking, cracking with disbelief. The sunlight, which had looked like gold mere moments before, now paints the walls and chairs and table with blood. The world has been yanked from beneath him a second time tonight, but this time it is not pleasant, this time it is wrong. So horribly wrong. He cannot understand, why? The question is all that echoes in his mind, in the numb shock that is taking him over, why?  _

_ Arthur - no, even if he denies it, Arthur is his father - Father turns away, cloak billowing behind him as he walks out of the room. The glimpse Mordred catches of his face is shadowed, a kingly mask. Once he believed that expression was perfect, now he sees it as it truly is, indifference. _

_ Indifference.  _

_ Sir Tristan was right, Father does not understand the human heart. _

_ If he did, he would not turn away. _

_ Mordred can feel the grimace crawling across his face, the sun striking his cheeks, his hair, the warmth of it almost painful. How can Father deny him? It is obvious, they are blood! It is in his hair, the same shade as Arthur’s. It is in his eyes, the same color as Arthur’s. It is in his face, more akin to Arthur’s than Morgana’s. How can he say no? How can he turn away?  _

_ The next words push from his lips, he can feel the tears pricking at his eyes.  _

_ “I was happy just being in your shadow.”  _

_ Father does not stop, and Mordred is left bereft, drifting on the sea, his raft snatched from under him. Drowning.  _

_ “Yet you never turned around to face me.”  _

_ This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Father had no heir, shouldn’t he have been happy? As happy as Mordred was to discover that they were father and son? Why? He does not understand. Why? It’s circling in his mind, around and around, why? Why? Why? _

_ “King! Then I will . . .!”  _

_ Tears, forcing their way up, spilling down his cheeks. He hates them, hates the way they feel on his skin. He expects Morgana’s voice, telling him not to cry, he expects pain if he does. He is Mordred l - Pendragon and he is not weak. He is Mordred Pendragon and he is strong, and he is fearless, and he turns to the only thing he knows that will keep the tears at bay. _

_ Anger. _

_ “I will destroy everything you represent!” _

_ The words are spat from his lips, his vision is tinted red, bloodlust building in the back of his throat. His fingers ache for his sword, clenching and unclenching, over and over. He will destroy it all, tear it down. How dare Father not understand! How dare Father not accept this fate! They are connected Father and Son, he should be happy! Why isn’t he happy? Why is he denying Mordred’s birthright? Why is he denying their connection? Why is he throwing away Mordred’s lifeline? He is Mordred’s father, he is supposed to care! To save him! So why? Why? WHY? _

_ If he can not be Father’s son, then he will become his enemy. _

_ If he can not follow Father without him facing him, then he will leave to make him face him. _

_ He refuses to be nothing to Father, so he will become Father’s destruction. _

_ “ARTHUR!!!”  _

_ Ripped from his throat with enough force to draw blood, a last ditch attempt to make Father look at him. He doesn’t, he’s gone, and Mordred is left screaming at an empty room, rage building and building in his chest until it is hard to breath, until he feels like he’s on fire. He will burn Camelot to the ground with this fire, he swears he will destroy it all. _

_ Mordred is nine and he looks like he’s sixteen when he decides to tear Camelot down, stone by stone if that’s what it takes, in retaliation for his father’s rejection. _

Mordred woke up choking, vision tinted red, rage clawing at his throat. He tumbled off the bed, hit the ground hard, stumbled towards the bathroom, retching, retching, shaking as he fought with himself. Clarent. Where was Clarent? He’d take the sword, tear it all down -

No.

NO.

_ NO. _

He  _ wouldn’t _ , he  _ couldn’t _ , he - he - he grabbed the sides of the toilet, retching, choking, hearing the porcelain crack in his grip. He  _ needed  _ to think, he  _ needed  _ to breathe, he needed to - he needed to - he needed - he pushed himself up, shaking, wiping his mouth, swaying from side to side. He needed to talk, to vent, to - to - to break something,  _ anything _ . The time, what was the time? It didn’t matter, he knew one person who'd be up.

For the briefest moment, he considered going to one of his friend’s rooms, they’d left him that option, clear as day when they let him go to the cleanup crew. If he needed them, they would be there, and he  _ needed  _ someone now, he  _ didn’t  _ want to be alone because if he was alone he would collapse under this rage. But Cu would be with Emiya, and Diarmuid’s room was, he was almost positive about this, near Father’s, and he didn’t know where Achilles was or where Fran was and . . . well, Fuuma was his friend, right? He counted, he  _ had  _ to count

And Fuuma  _ knew  _ about night terrors and memories and the demons they dredged up. And he  _ knew  _ loss of control and actions that people may or may not regret.

So Mordred, shaking, fists clenched, sweat drenching his brow, ran to the simulator, burst into the room, enjoying the loud  _ crack  _ as the metal doors shot open. He’d have to fix it tomorrow, but right now he didn’t care. Fuuma was already there, finishing a fight, flashing through battle like a shadow skittering across a wall. Mordred summoned his armor, felt Clarent drop into his palm, jumped into the fray, lightning snapping off the metal, striking against the ground. They made short work of the dregs, but the anger was still rushing through his veins,  _ burning  _ against the back of his throat,  _ begging  _ to be released. He turned to Fuuma, his voice a rasp, “Can, the Lion King, can we fight her?” 

Fuuma nodded, a short jerk of his head, and then he was by the controls. “I will warn you,” he said, “The simulation has been updated a bit.”

_ “I don’t care.” _ The words were spat out, venom coating each syllable, and he winced, yesterday flashing through his mind. “ _ Shit _ , sorry.”

Fuuma shrugged, “I understand.”

Then the world was changing, shifting, and they were in the throne room of Camelot, and she was there, on her horse, blue-green eyes, greener in this form, shining gold hair with her woven gold crown, face as blank and indifferent as ever,  Rhongomyniad glowing in her grip. The same Rhongomyniad that had ripped through Mordred’s chest so long ago. The same Rhongomyniad that had ended his life.

It was almost ironic, how it  _ wasn’t  _ his piss poor excuse of a mother who had killed him, despite her tortures and her conditioning. It was almost ironic that it was his  _ father _ , the one who Mordred had believed would love him as Morgana could not,  _ would  _ not, who had dealt the killing blow.

Mordred snarled, vision painted red, and he lunged forwards, Clarent overhead, bringing it down. Her stallion, Dun Stallion, skittered to the side, her lance came down, striking Mordred’s back, he stumbled and fell to his knees, growling, tears in his eyes. Why?  _ Why? _ Was he  _ not  _ enough?  _ How  _ could he be enough?   
_ How  _ could he face her rejection without acting like a mad beast with no restraints?

His instincts screamed, he rolled to the side as the Lion King’s lance came rushing down, cracking the ground, throwing off it’s white light. He pushed to his feet, lunged forward, Clarent striking, not at her, but at Dun Stallion, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rhongomyniad come down, stopped by a chain, followed by a flying knife. Clarent cut through Dun Stallion’s side even as the horse twisted, then something impacted his chest, hard, sending him flying back. Not the horse’s hoof,  _ no _ , he knew the sound of the impact of a sabaton against a chest plate almost better than anyone else. He struggled to his feet to see the Lion King drop off Dun Stallion, heading his way as the horse twisted and ran after the flickering shadow that was Fuuma.

Updated his  _ ass _ , it was like a whole new fucking battle.

Mordred got up again, coughing, feeling the pain in his lungs and his ribs. His arm, the broken one, ached, and he realized in horror that it hadn’t healed. _ Of course _ it hadn’t, all that had been done was a resetting and a bandaging, it would take a couple more days  _ at least _ without more extensive care _. _ In his anger he’d forgotten. Stupid, stupid,  _ stupid! _ He switched arms, let the lighting play over his vambraces, strengthening his grip, making up for his injuries. He snarled at the Lion King, still walking forwards in her silver armor, her face still cold and indifferent, and lunged. She stepped aside, batting away his attacks as if they were the strikes of a flea. She wasn’t looking at him, at something far away, as if he was nothing consequential. And his rage built further, the lighting crackling as he fought, Clarent bashing against Rhongomyniad, over and over. His heel hit her knee, she slapped his punch away with a causal arm. He swung at her again, she ducked, Rhongomyniad swept low at his feet, and Mordred jumped forwards, bringing his knee into her face. That got a reaction, made her stumble back, blood gushing from her nose. He continued forward, getting Clarent under Rhongomyniad to push it away, grabbing her other wrist, dragging her forwards, slamming his helm into her jaw. Her head jerked up, Rhongomyniad flashed, and Mordred could feel heat sear his arm, travelling down to roost in his chest. He ignored it, trying to jab his heels through her feet even as she stepped back, Rhongomyniad rotating under Clarent’s guard to slam against his side, sending him flying, slamming against the ground, rolling, again and again.

He pushed himself up, pieces of metal falling from his helmet. He could see Fuuma retreating as Dun Stallion chased him, lines of blood drawn against the horse’s flanks. Their eyes met, then Mordred was turning back as the Lion King brought Rhongomyniad down to crash upon his head, to bury in his chest. It didn’t connect, Mordred propelled himself backwards, armor grating against stone as his lightning left trails in his wake. A chain wrapped around the Lion King’s arm, then in a flutter of cloth Fuuma was there, a knife flashing across the Lion’s King's face even as she drew back, blood dotting her cheek. Mordred tossed himself to his feet, twisting around and shoving Clarent into Dun Stallion’s chest as he raced towards him, his armored head lowered in a charge. Dun Stallion collapsed, as he’d never been, and Mordred twirled around again, bringing Clarent down, a line of crackling lightning headed straight towards the Lion King. Fuuma was already out of the way, the Lion King was not fast enough, caught in the blast, stumbling back, arching as the electricity clung to her bones. Mordred followed the blast, in the air now, slamming down. She was smoking, steam rising from her armor, her hair frizzing, but she still almost made it, would have too if Fuuma hadn’t darted in, knives slipping past the gaps in her armor, cutting through the tendons, before wrapping the chain around the arm that held Rhongomyniad, faster than thought. She fell to her knees, face still impassive as Mordred brought Clarent down, cleaving her in too.

She disappeared.

The false Camelot faded.

Da Vinci’s voice.

**“Simulation Complete~”**


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the menu for today is: My need for Fuuma content once again rears its head, all Chulainns are disasters, the Teenaged Terrors get the full Jurassic Park experience, we take a break from Mordred’s angst ™ to look at Artoria’s angst ™ , Chiron gets all the teacher jokes, celebration time, and HOW DO THESE CHAPTERS KEEP GETTING LONGER.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooohhh, what's this? A chapter in the middle of the day instead of late at night? How exciting.  
> But in all seriousness, thank you all for your comments and kudos! Each one blows my mind away. You people are the absolute best! Also, I had a question about updating, I try to update ever week, occasionally, I don't make it for a variety of reasons, but once seven days hits, I'm pretty close to being able to put the next chapter up. Finally, I hope you all enjoy this chapter and have a wonderful day!
> 
> As always, possible triggers. Be careful. Section "I can not" to "For a long moment Artoria was silent . . ." mentions non-consent, so just keep a heads up peeps.

The false Lion King was  _ gone _ , the room around them normal again, and all that anger that had built up in Mordred’s chest was gone too, leaving him feeling empty and hollow. He collapsed, his armor cracking apart, back in his pajamas, the oversized shirt, the too big pants, his bandages on full display. “You  _ weren’t  _ fucking kidding about there being an upgrade.” His voice was wrecked and raw, but it was his voice alright, no anger, no emptiness, just slight annoyance. He’d take that as a victory for now.

Fuuma glanced at him, at his arms, and frowned slightly. “You didn’t tell me you were injured.” Business mode then, that was okay, Mordred really didn’t have the patience to deal with his shy mode. Not tonight.

“Not  _ that  _ badly.” Mordred argued, pushing himself up again.

“That one is broken,” Fuuma pointed out, pulling a pouch out of his jinbaori, “You should go see Nightingale.”

Mordred made a face, “I  _ just  _ got out of the infirmary yesterday. If I go back, she’ll  _ kill  _ me.” Fuuma gave a non committal hum, then pulled something out of the bag and tossed it in Mordred’s direction. Mordred caught it and stared at it. It was a small rounded tin of something that fit neatly in his palms. “What the  _ hell  _ is this?”

“Ointment,” Fuuma said simply, “It’s spelled. Put it on your broken arm, and it will heal faster.”

“Thanks,” He muttered, tucking the tin away, “But why do you have a tin of magical healing cream with you in the middle of the night?” 

“Preparation is important.” He said, a bit stubbornly.

Mordred snorted, “Whatever.” For a few seconds, they were silent, then, Mordred spoke again. “Hey, Fuuma, you said something about loss of control a few days ago. Could you explain what you meant? I don’t . . .” He trailed off, unsure of what to say.

Fuuma turned from him, moving to the controls and glancing through them. “I don’t think what I have to say will help you.” The words were said slowly, drawn out with difficulty.

“Well try.”

He sighed. “You lose control of your temper, hai? Well . . .” He paused, sighed again, “I do not lose control of my emotions. It is . . . in some ways the opposite. I lose control of my ability to . . . think any way but rationally.” He frowned slightly, eyes hidden by his hair. “I have done many things I am not proud of, and . . . if I had not lost contact with that vital part of me, I doubt I would have done them. But I still did them, and I can still rationalize them. We all do things that we are not proud of to survive, after all.” He shrugged, the smallest of shrugs, “I lose contact with my emotions, lose control of my ability to focus on the intangible things that matter. I become less than human, because I can disconnect from the emotions my actions should bring. That is what I mean by loss of control, at least for me.” He chuckled, a soft, barely there sound, “perhaps loss of control is the wrong way to describe it.”

Mordred stared at him, then groaned. “You’re  _ right _ , that doesn’t fucking help at all.” He sighed hard, cursed softly, and spoke again, “When I get angry, I stop being able to think. I just act. No matter the consequences or what I really want.”

“Knowing that is the first step to fixing it.”

“Has that worked for you?”

He didn’t reply.

Mordred groaned again, “Well, whatever. Thanks for the talk.” A thought struck him, “Hey, are we friends?”

“AH?”

“I mean,” he summoned Clarent so he could plant the blade in the floor and lean on it, “we’re insomniac nightmare buddies. We’ve been doing this for practically the whole week now. We’re friends. Right?”

Fuuma stared at him, jaw open in surprise, shock written over his visible features. “Ah . . . you’re correct . . . I . . . ah . . . friends . . .” He trailed off, then he spoke again, blurted, rushed words. “Kotarou . .. ah . . . my friends call me Kotarou.”

“Cool,” Mordred grinned, “Kotarou. Now, are we going to fight something else?”

“Ah . . . no, you’re going to put the ointment on.”

“. . .  _ Fine _ .”

Mordred tugged his gloves up higher and his jacket sleeves down lower, keeping an eye for a certain Berserker Nurse wandering the cafeteria. Kotarou’s ointment had worked like a charm, and Mordred’s break was healed, although it still ached, and he’d still kept the bandages on for support. He was glad he’d chosen the gloves, glad his jacket was long sleeved. He didn’t want Nightingale seeing the bandages, not only her, but anyone else, really. Irisviel  _ especially _ , he could still see her disappointed look from yesterday, he  _ didn’t  _ want to see it again.

A plate hit the table, soft and gentle, and Mordred stopped glancing nervously around to watch Fran as she sat down, arranging her skirts and glancing at his gloves through her bangs. He waggled his fingers at her, “I’m fine, Kotarou had some magical healing ointment he let me borrow.”

She tilted her head curiously, “Uh?”

“You know, the red-haired kid who is about my height. I think you’d like him. We fight shit sometimes when I can’t sleep.” For a second, he paused, then a bit nervously asked, “Have you seen the rest of the Chaos Crew? I haven’t seen them this morning.” He glanced around again, trying to spot them.  _ Nothing _ .

Fran shook her head slowly, then she set her fork down and began to sign.  _ You couldn’t sleep last night? Why didn’t you tell me? _

He winced slightly, “I don’t know where your room is, and I didn’t want to bother you.”

_ Next time, do. _

He huffed a laugh, “ _ Fine _ , I will. You’ve gotten good at that.”

Fran smiled,  _ Thank you. I’ve been practicing. _

Another plate hit the table, this time much louder and much more violent. “Please, for the love of Lugh, let me sit here. I swear, CasCu has gotten eager about something, and it’s driving me and Alter up the wall.” It was Proto, his face screwed up in annoyance.

Mordred glanced at Fran, and she shrugged, so he said, “Sure.” A pause, “have you seen the rest of the Chaos Crew?” He was starting to get worried, where the  _ hell  _ could they be? He didn’t want to be alone,  _ not  _ today,  _ not  _ so soon after . . .

“They’re on rotation today,” Proto said, sitting down and beginning to eat, “I could have sworn they told you that.”

Mordred blinked,  _ shit _ , they  _ had _ , hadn’t they? He’d forgotten. “Well fuck.” He set his fork down on his empty plate. He would need to grab seconds soon, but for now . . . “I don’t know what to do.” He’d been spending his mornings with the Chaos Crew for the past week, and . . . now he felt adrift and unsure, left behind in the dust. He didn’t like the feeling. 

“Well,” Proto said, grinning, “you could always fight me.”

“Uh,” Fran said, disapproving.

Mordred, who’d been beginning to grin, slumped. She was right,  _ yeah _ , the break was healed, but that didn’t mean  _ shit _ . It was still weak, and a fight with a Chulainn would mean no holding back. “You could come with us?” He offered, and Fran looked at him doubtfully, “to make sure we don’t go overboard.”

Proto snickered, “I heard about that. Did you really electrocute Beowulf?”

“Next time,” Mordred muttered, even though there would be no next time, “I’ll kick him in the nuts. That should bring an end to the fight.” Proto burst out laughing, wild and raucous, while Fran shook her head and sighed, an amused smile on her lips and a concerned look in her eyes.

They were halfway to the training rooms when the idea hit. “We should use the simulation room.” He  _ couldn’t  _ believe he hadn’t thought of this before. It was  _ perfect _ , the simulations were dangerous enough to be a challenge, but not dangerous enough to kill or injure. As long as they didn’t fight the Lion King, at least. This way, Proto and him would get their fight, and Fran couldn’t argue about him over doing it.  _ Hell _ , she could even join in if she wanted.

Proto reeled back as if he’d been slapped, while Fran tilted her head curiously. “There’s a simulation room?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re telling me,” and Proto sounded insulted now, “that this whole time I could have been fighting fake armies and I didn’t know?”

Mordred snorted, “That’s on you. Besides, I don’t know how to run it.” He paused for a second, thinking. “I guess Kotarou may still be in there. Didn’t see him at breakfast this morning.” Actually, now that he thought about it, he’d never seen Kotarou outside of the simulator. Did he live there? Close by? 

“FUUMA?!” Proto shrieked, his blood draining from his face, eyes widening with commercial terror.

There was a pause as Mordred and Fran stopped walking to stare incredulously at him. Proto slapped his hand over his mouth, looking both mortified and horrified. “You know him?” Mordred asked, not sure whether to be curious or shocked. He settled for a mix of both.

But Fran was beginning to smile, a small smile that almost reminded Mordred of Achilles.  _ Let me guess, _ she signed,  _ you’re on rotation with him? _

Proto’s face, once white as a sheet, went tomato red, and this time his voice was a snarled growl, “That’s not the fucking point here.”

_ But I am right.  _ If someone could exclude an air of smugness using sign language, then Fran managed.

Proto narrowed his eyes at her, his voice low and dangerous, “Yeah, we’re on rotation together, your point is?”

Fran turned to Mordred, eyes gleaming behind her bangs, still smiling.  _ I think that the simulation room sounds like a wonderful idea. _

Mordred stared at her almost terrifyingly small and gentle smile, then at Proto’s suddenly panicked expression, then back to her terrifying smile, unable to help feeling like he just missed something major. “Okay?”

Mordred pushed the simulation room door open carefully, waiting for it to fall or crash open. Nothing. So he  _ hadn’t  _ broken it last night, that was a surprise. It wasn’t the only surprise waiting for them. Da Vinci was in the room, had some device in her hand hooked up to a port, and the hologram of a snake person rotating about a foot above the screen. “Are you sure, Kotarou?” She was saying, voice business like, “I could have sworn that I fixed it last time.”

“Hai,” Kotarou said, examining the hologram, “the nagas we have fought before move much smoother than the ones in the simulation.” He pointed with the tip of a knife, “ Their tails also need to be longer, not by much, by a foot maybe, to -”

“Support their upper body,” Da Vinci finished, “is this the problem with all of the simulations with the naga enemy, or just the one?”

Kotarou tilted his head back, considering, “Just the one. I haven’t gotten the chance to test the others to see if the problem is continuous.”

Da Vinci nodded, beaming, “Thanks Kotarou! You’re a big help.”

Kotarou flushed, ducking his head, “Ah . . . you’re welcome, Da Vinci-chan.”

Proto made a sharp noise between his teeth, began to back-pedal. “This was a bad idea,” he hissed, voice strangled. “we should just spar, somewhere else. Yes, somewhere else would be great.” 

Fran grabbed his sleeve, preventing his escape, a look of amusement decorating her features. Mordred stared at Proto, disbelieving, as the Lancer struggled in her grip. “What the  _ hell _ , dude? What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing.” He hissed forcefully, face flaming.

Fran began to giggle, “Uh?”

Mordred turned his gaze to her. “Figured out  _ what _ ?”

“NOTHING.” Proto shouted, his voice echoing off the walls.

Sudden silence, while Fran dissolved into quiet giggles, Proto managed to get even redder, and Mordred reeled at the violent reaction. Da Vinci turned around, beamed in their direction, while Kotarou glanced at them, nodded once in greeting, then returned to examining the hologram. “Well hello there! What are you guys doing in here?”

“Well,” Mordred said, because Proto had buried his face in his hands and Fran was still giggling, “We’re here to fight shit.”

Da Vinci laughed. “Does it matter what type of stuff?”

“No, just stuff.”

“Good, I’ve been meaning to try something, and with you four, I’ll have enough people to run it,” she grinned, a bright, sunny grin, then turned back to Kotarou, “Hey, Kotarou~,” she sang in a way that, for all its innocence, was downright terrifying, and suddenly, all of Mordred’s instincts were screaming at him to get the  _ hell  _ out of dodge, “Can you grab the specs for program JP1001 for me? As quick as possible please~”

Kotarou stepped away from the hologram, nodded, then was gone, with only the brush of air to signify his passage. Da Vinci went back to her hologram, dismissing the naga and pulling up what looked to be a complicated set of code, humming in a way that could only be described as maniacal. Whelp, whatever it was, they were in for it now. He turned back to Proto and Fran, “Figured out  _ what?” _ He repeated.

“Nothing,” Proto growled, “because there's nothing to figure out.”

“Uh.” Fran said, eyes gleaming delightedly.

For the briefest of moments, Mordred was frozen, then he jolted into action.  _ “SERIOUSLY?!” _

“I don’t know what she said,” Proto growled, “and for the love of Lugh, keep your voice down.”

Mordred toned it down a few notches, but it still came out as a whispered screech of disbelief.  _ “Kotarou? Seriously?” _

Proto glanced away nervously, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

_ Let’s make this easy, _ Fran signed, letting go of Proto’s sleeve,  _ You keep on avoiding your older self because he keeps on teasing you about a date. You say it’s not a date, that it’s just rotation, but you are flustered while saying it. You are on rotation with,  _ she paused for a second, then continued,  _ Fuuma. When Mordred mentioned him, you freaked out. And just now, you were staring at him while blushing. You like Fuuma. _

Mordred stared at her, “ _ Damn _ Fran, you’ve gotten really good at that.”

She smiled,  _ Thanks, I worked all night on my sign language. _

He whistled, impressed, then turned to Proto, who was staring at his shoes, scowling furiously. “So,” he said, “Kotarou.”

“Shut up,” Proto growled, face going red again.

“Okay. Just a few questions, why Kotarou? I mean, he’s nice and all, but he’s a perfectionist. And paranoid. And a control freak.” 

Proto glared at him, “He is not! He’s great, and he’s smart. Like really fucking smart. And -” He clamped his hands over his mouth, then, face flaming, hissed, “We aren’t talking about this, not at all. Never speaking of this again.”

_ Never again,  _ Fran signed, and Mordred nodded emphatically. He had heard  _ enough _ . They stood there in awkward silence for a bit, before Fran signed again,  _ Have you talked to him?  _ Mordred groaned in despair, and she sent him a glare.

“No,” Proto grumbled, leaning against the wall.

_ Why not? _

“Because . . . I don’t know. He doesn’t talk much out of rotation, and I don’t wanna force him to talk if he doesn’t want to.”

_ That’s sweet of you. You should talk to him. _

“Thanks,” Proto said dryly, “that’s a lot of help.”

_ You’re welcome.  _ She tilted her head, as if considering something, then signed,  _ What if I help you with your romantic problems, and you help me with my romantic problems? _

Mordred had been watching this whole interaction with a bit of bemusement and confusion and vague disinterest, but that last part jumped out at him. “ _ You _ have romantic problems? How the  _ hell  _ do you have romantic problems? You’ve been here for like, three days!”

_ Yes,  _ Fran signed, face blank,  _ I have romantic problems. _

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Mordred asked, a bit injured, “I could have  _ helped _ .”

She raised a questioning eyebrow, and Proto began to laugh, “You know what, I’m a fan of stupid promises, I’ll take that deal.”

“Sorry, Da Vinci-chan,” Kotarou’s voice, murmured as he appeared by Da Vinci’s side from nowhere. Mordred couldn’t help but wonder how long he’d been there. Just how much had he heard? “It took me a bit to locate the program,” he passed her something and she plugged it into the device. “You rearranged your filing system.”

‘Did you figure it out again?” She asked cheerfully.

“Not yet, but I will soon.”

She laughed, “Go talk to other people, Kotarou, it will be good for you. Besides, I need to get this uploaded.”

“Ah . . . hai,” he mumbled, bowing once then moving over to their little group. 

Proto made an audible gulping noise.

Mordred decided to ignore him, and went straight to the point. “You told Da Vinci that the balance for the Lion King program was off, didn’t you?”

“Ah . . . no,” Fuuma fiddled with his fingers, glancing away, “I . . . simply stated that her range of motions was visibly limited . . . and that her center of balance was off for a person riding a horse.” Which had led to a whole new program which had led to a completely different fight. Mordred was, against his better judgment, impressed. “Ah . . . I was actually going to bring that up after we got finished discussing the mooks,” he continued, his business voice slipping in, “She wasn’t as strong enough as she should have been. If it had been a real battle, she would have been able to rip out of my grip and block your strike.”

“Okay, yeah, you have a point.” Mordred admitted.

“So,” Proto blurted, “you come here often?”

A brief moment of silence.

Then Proto slapped his forehead, dragging his palm across his face. Mordred could hear his mental voice, pained and tortured.  _ “Kill me now.” _

“Ah . . . hai?” Kotarou said, glancing at Proto questioningly. Fran was giggling mischievously again and Mordred could feel his eye twitching as he resisted the urge to reach over and smack the back of Proto’s head.  _ Maybe  _ it would shake some sense into him. Mordred doubted it though, he was a Chulainn after all.

“That reminds me,” Mordred said, before Proto could do something else  _ phenomenally  _ embarrassing. “Kotarou, meet Fran. Fran, meet Kotarou.”

_ Nice to meet you _ , Fran signed, her eyes gleaming.

“Ah . . . you too,” Kotarou said, as if he thought those were the correct words to say but wasn’t really sure.

“Wonderful~” Da Vinci sang, unplugging from the port and walking over. “The new simulation has been downloaded, and I’ll be watching from the security cams to make sure nothing goes wrong. Have fun kids~” She waved, stepped out of the room, closed the door, and the lights went out.

Darkness, sharp and sudden, and then suddenly not, and the next lungful of air Mordred inhaled was wet and humid and hot and smelled of wood and rotting leaves and greenery. Around them, a forest, trees reaching for the sky, underbrush thick around them. None of the plants were familiar, and Mordred felt unease trickle down his back. This  _ didn’t  _ feel like a simulation, this felt like a reality marble, a completely different world, not connected to the real Chaldea.

“Well,” Proto said, “This is weird.”

“Uh,” Fran agreed.

“Da Vinci really outdid herself on this one.” Mordred snapped his armor into place, hearing the helm click around his face. He regretted it  _ immediately _ , as hot and humid as it was, he felt like he was being cooked alive inside the shaped metal. 

“Oh no,” Kotarou breathed. He was crouched by one of the plants, his jinbaori spread across the ground. He didn’t give anyone time to react, pushing himself up and drawing one of his knives. “These,” he said, eyes flashing behind his hair, “date from the late Cretaceous period.”

“Speak words we know.” Mordred said, feeling Clarent take shape in his grip. Proto was already ready, Gae Bolg in hand, and Mordred was shocked to see that he was wearing armor.  _ Actual  _ fucking armor.  _ Not  _ some souped up bodysuit that was supposedly armor. 

“Uh,” Fran said, her mace in her hands, eyes scanning the area around them.

“What do you mean?” Proto hissed, getting ready.

“She means dinosaurs,” Mordred said, “but that  _ can’t  _ be right. Da Vinci wouldn’t have made a simulation just for dinosaurs. She couldn’t have.”

Something roared, so loud Mordred swore the earth shook underneath his feet. Kotarou sighed, crouching again, “Hai, she could have.” 

“This is fine,” Proto said, although there was a bead of sweat on his brow. “We’ve fought dragons before, a dinosaur should be no problem.”

Fifteen minutes later, they were running. Mordred had scooped up Fran in his arms, struggling to keep up with the speed demons that were Proto and Fuuma, while behind them, something large and dangerous crashed through the trees. Mordred set off another burst of lightning, and Fran gave a muffled shriek and gripped his shoulders tighter. “Da Vinci is a  _ fucking  _ madwoman,” he growled between pants. “how the  _ fuck  _ is that thing a  _ dinosaur? _ There is no way,  _ there is no fucking way!” _

“Uh.” Fran said, looking back.

“WHAT THE  _ HELL  _ DO YOU MEAN IT’S GAINING!” Mordred had  _ already  _ discarded his armor and was using all of his mana to keep them ahead of the thing.  _ And  _ now she was telling him that it wasn’t working?! He  _ hated  _ Da Vinci. Absofuckinglutly  _ hated  _ her.  _ Who  _ thought this  _ shit  _ up in their free time? 

“Uh.”

“THIS IS AS FAST AS I GET!”

Kotarou’s voice in his mind,  _ “You’re almost there, just a bit further.” _

_ “This plan of yours better fucking work!” _

_ “Hey! Calm down Mordred, we know what we’re doing.” _

_ “You . . . better.” _

A roar from behind them, and Mordred could swear that he felt spittle on his back. “I  _ hate  _ them,” he panted, “I  _ hate  _ them. This plan is  _ stupid  _ and I  _ hate  _ them.”

“Uh.” Fran said.

Mordred banked right, lightning a constant stream pouring off his skin. Fran gripped his shoulder tighter, pointed with one arm, and with a curse, Mordred threw himself forwards, just a bit farther, just a bit,  _ there! _ Another blast of lightning, then they were both tumbling to the ground head over heels, and something exploded.  _ Loudly _ . A burst of light and heat that sent the two of them hurtling forwards, leaves catching in their clothing and hair. Mordred risked a look behind them. The dinosaur, Mordred wasn’t sure what type it was, except that it was big and dangerous and had sharp teeth, wavered slowly, skin scorched and steaming, eyes rolling in it’s sockets.  **“GAE BOLG!”** A cry of delight, a shaft of jerking red light from the trees, it hit the dinosaur in the chest, it staggered back, then slowly began to fall to the ground. The collision made the earth shake, because of  _ course  _ Da Vinci had to add that bit of detail. Proto stepped out from the trees, Gae Bolg flying back into his hands, “Fuuma,” he said, in a voice mixed with awe and delight, “how much black powder did you put in that thing?”

Kotarou melded from the shadows, “It wasn’t black powder, it was TNT,” he corrected softly.

“Black powder, TNT, whatever it was, it was awesome,” Proto said, almost dreamily, and Mordred wasn’t watching them, but he was willing to bet the Lancer was making moony eyes at the smaller Assassin.

Mordred flopped back against the ground. “I’m done. I’m done with today. Nothing will top this.” He groaned, loudly, “How come  _ we  _ had to be the bait?” It came out in a long whine, but he’d just been chased by a  _ dinosaur _ . He  _ had  _ an  _ fucking  _ excuse.

“Because Fuuma is the one who knows traps and I’m the one who knows how animals think. Duh.”

“Uh.” Fran said, slightly apologetic.

“You’re  _ fine _ ,” Mordred grumbled, “It’s not your fault you're slow. It’s  _ their  _ fucking fault because it was their fucking plan!” His voice rose, “Actually, scratch that, it’s  _ Da Vinci’s _ fucking  _ fault  _ for creating this thing in the first place.  _ Who  _ wants to fight a dinosaur, _ huh? Not  _ me!  _ NEVER  _ FUCKING  _ AGAIN!” _

Fran started to giggle, soft and light beside him, and he could hear Proto burst out into wild laughter while Kotarou made a noise that might have been a soft chuckle. “Well,” Proto managed, “I can mark this off my bucket list. Finally blew up one of Alter’s relatives. Boom, check, done.” 

Mordred lost it, and burst out into laughter with them.

By lunch time, Mordred was mostly recovered by his near death experience of murder by dinosaur, then his near death experience of Da Vinci’s lecture about explosives in the simulation room. Which was  _ stupid  _ and he’d said as much. She hadn’t been very appreciative of his choice of words. Currently, he was digging into his meal, and that was when Achilles, Cu, and Diarmuid sat down. “Back so soon?” He asked around a mouthful of food.

“It was a normal supplies run,” Achilles made a face, as if the very prospect was horrible, “Nothing really interesting happened. You?”

Mordred shrugged, “Fought a dinosaur, nothing much.”

“You fought a dinosaur?” Cu yelped, leaning forwards, “Aww man, I’m jealous.”

“Damn it,” Achilles grumbled, “I want to fight a dinosaur too.”

Diarmuid leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “We leave you alone for one day . . .” He opened an eye, “So, what was it like?”

Terrifying. Horrible. The worst. “Great. You should try it.” And Mordred would need the recording so he could make fun of them  _ forever _ .   
“Just might,” Diarmuid murmured, “how’s your arm doing?”

“Good,” Mordred said, “Koarou gave me some ointment that fixed it right up.” He glanced around, but there was no Assassin to be seen. Nor was Proto in the immediate vicinity. He leaned forwards, grinning widely, “Wanna hear a pit of gossip?”

Cu looked interested, and Diarmuid rolled his eyes and focused on his meal, but as expected, it was Achilles who grinned and said, “I’m always down for some gossip.”

“I know who Proto has a crush on,” he hissed, lowering his voice. Just in case.

“Seriously?” Cu asked, jaw dropping, “I thought CasCu was just pulling his tail.”

“Gimme,” Achilles said, “details, details Mordred. Give ‘em to me.”

“So, you know Fuuma Kotarou?” Nothing but blank looks, and Mordred sighed, “Well, he’s an Assassin. About my height, red hair, probably lives in the simulation room.  _ Apparently  _ they’re on rotation together. Don’t tell anyone the source was me.” Achilles opened his mouth, probably to ask for more details, but Mordred was  _ done  _ talking about Proto, “ _ Also _ , apparently Fran has romantic problems.” His eyebrows furrowed, “and do you  _ know  _ how I figured this out? She told  _ Proto _ . I’m her friend! She should have told  _ me _ ! I could have  _ helped _ .” He couldn’t help but sound injured. They were  _ friends _ ! Friends told each other stuff like that, right? 

_ Right? _

Achilles stared at him for a few seconds, then burst into laughter, Cu began choking on a piece of his food, and Diarmuid placed his head in his hands and sighed heavily. Mordred stared at them incredulously, “Guys, what’s so funny? Guys?  _ Guys?” _

In the end, they did not tell him what was so funny. In the end, Cu managed to say, “You’ll understand when you’re older,” before bursting out into laughter again. They  _ deserved  _ whatever the dinosaur did to them. So he ended up stomping out of the cafeteria annoyed, bemused, and feeling like he’d missed something important.  _ Again _ .

Gudao stopped him, “Hey, we need to talk.”

Mordred looked at him, at the odd look shining in his eyes. Unease stirred in his gut, and not even Gudao’s shirt, which read PROJECT MANAGER: NOUN [ **PROJ** \- EK **T MAN** \- I - GER] SOMEONE WHO DOES PRECISION GUESSWORK BASED ON UNRELIABLE DATA PROVIDED BY THOSE OF QUESTIONABLE KNOWLEDGE. SEE ALSO, MAGICIAN, LEADER, MIRACLE WORKER , made him feel better . “Yeah, what’s up?”

Gudao tilted his head, “Come on,” he led Mordred down a few corridors, then into an empty room, one with a desk and chairs. He flopped down, sighed, attempted a smile, “Good news or bad news first?”

“Good news,” Mordred said, sitting down as well, ignoring the jitteriness in his limbs.

“Good news is, you’re on rotation in two days. You’ll meet me at the rotation room before breakfast, don’t worry, we normally get a to-go bag from the Kitchen Crew.” He grinned, “and I think you’ll like who I’m putting you with, but if you don’t,  _ tell me _ , so I can switch things around.” He stressed the ‘tell me’ and Mordred felt something sink in his stomach.  _ Shit _ . He knew. How much he knew, Mordred didn’t know, but he  _ knew _ . Who had told him, why? “The bad news is,” Gudako said, leaning forwards, suddenly serious, “That I know you had a breakdown. No, I don’t know the details, but I do know it happened.” He sighed, rubbed his face, dropped his hands, twining his fingers in his lap, “Mordred, why didn’t you tell me?”

Mordred was frozen, wrestling with the shard of rage that had lodged itself in his throat. Who had told _him?_ _Who_ had told him? Fran, when she had left with him yesterday after lunch? Achilles or Cu or Diarmuid while on rotation this morning? Who? He swallowed hard. “I didn’t want you to worry.” Didn’t want him to see Mordred as a _weak_ thing, incapable of controlling his emotions.

“Mordred,” and when Gudao spoke, it was soft, not angry, “You’re my friend, of course I’m going to worry.” His voice hardened, “But I’m also your Master, and I need to know what’s going on with you, just in case it will affect your performance on the battlefield.”

“It won’t,” he mumbled, hands fisted in his lap.

“Can you promise me that?”

He didn’t answer.

Gudao sighed, heavily, and shifted in his seat, but Mordred didn’t look at him. “Mordred,” and his voice was gentle again, “I want to help you, okay?”

“Who told you.” His voice was flat, cold, and he  _ didn’t  _ like it, he almost preferred it shaking with rage.

“Someone,” Gudao said, and there was something in his voice that made Mordred look at him. His eyes were earnest, but gentle at the same time, and Mordred wasn’t sure whether to hate the look or be relieved by it, “who was worried about you, who cares about you, and wants to find a way to fix this.”

Mordred’s hands were shaking, he could feel them, “It  _ can’t  _ be fixed,” his voice was . . . was raw. It  _ couldn’t  _ be fixed, because Father  _ didn’t  _ want him and  _ nothing  _ Mordred had learned had helped him face that fact. “ _ It _ can’t be  _ fixed _ .” 

Gudao smiled, something sad but determined at the same time, “You don’t know, not until you try. But whatever we do next, we need to help you move past this anger, or at least learn to . . .” 

_ “Smother it?” _ He hissed.

“No, I was going to suggest channel it in a non destructive way.” He reached out and enfolded Mordred’s hand in his, “Are you willing to try something for me?”

“I swore myself to you, remember?” Mordred muttered.

“I’m not going to make you do this if you don’t want to.”

A deep breath, “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to talk to someone, someone who won’t judge you, will just listen. Someone you can vent to, and maybe help you work through this. Are you willing to do that?”

No, he didn’t want that, didn’t want someone prying into his past, judging his actions, but his mouth was already moving. _ “Fine.” _

It was Chiron, and Mordred could feel his eyebrow twitch. He remembered the Archer now, from their Greater Holy Grail War. The fucker had broken his arm, then had the  _ audacity  _ to be surprised when Mordred had kept on fighting. “Chiron~,” Gudao sang, pushing open the door, “You busy?”

Chiron looked up from a stack of papers, glasses balanced on his nose. Mordred was pretty sure they were there only for the aesthetic. “No, Gudao, I’m not.” He raised an eyebrow, “Mordred, how unexpected.”

Mordred glared at the ground, fuming silently.  _ Why  _ had he agreed with this?  _ Why  _ had his stupid mouth spoken before his thoughts had caught up? But he was here now, and he  _ refused  _ to run away. “Sure, unexpected, yeah.”

Gudao turned to him, “I didn’t tell him,” he said softly, “That’s up to you.” He hesitated, “Do you want me to be here?”

“No,” Mordred grumbled, “Go back and hang out with Fran. She’s been excited about showing you how her sign language has been going.”

“Okay, see ya.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Gudao smiled softly, waved at Chiron, then left. Mordred didn’t say anything, and Chiron motioned for him to take a seat then turned back to his papers. He sat, feeling horribly of balance, the silence stretching, until finally, he broke.  _ “So.” _

“So?” Chiron pressed, setting the papers down and raising an eyebrow. “What’s the matter?”

“What makes you think anything’s the matter?”

“I highly doubt that you would speak to me if something wasn’t the matter.”

He was right, and Mordred knew it. He squirmed in his seat, glanced away, then glanced back. What  _ should  _ he do? What did he  _ want  _ to do? He’d told Fran he wanted to be a good king. He’d told Fran he’d wanted to be a good Servant for Gudao. He’d told Fran he wanted to be a better person, to make better choices. He’d told Fran that he wanted to be happy, and he  _ couldn’t  _ be happy if the sight of Father sent him into a downward spiral. So he opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again and blurted out. “IgetsuperpissedoffwheneverIseeFatherandIstartfreakingoutandIdon’tknowhowtostopitbutIwantittostopandGudaosaidyoumightbeabletohelpandIthinkImightneedhelpsohelp.”

Chiron leaned back into his seat, and for a second, Mordred wondered if he’d understand any of the word vomit that had just pushed past his lips. Then Chiron set his glasses down on the table, “Well,” he said, “I see that this is going to require my undivided attention.” He hesitated, as if trying to think, “Where would you like to begin?”

Diarmuid waited in the training room, mentally running through possibilities. Was he nervous? Yes, but their post-lunch spar was the best time for him to speak to Artoria. And he had calmed down a bit, even if he still wasn’t happy. He could speak to her without yelling now, at least he was pretty sure he could

“Ah, Diarmuid,” Artoria was stepping into the room, her battle gown and armor coalescing with the movement, “My apologies for a few days ago, I did not mean to interrupt yesterday.”

“Hmm,” he said non committedly, summoning Gae Buidhe and Gae Dearg, twirling them in his grip, “May I ask you something, Artoria?”

“Of course, my friend,” she stepped onto the mat, Excalibur in her hands, glowing bright gold. 

“What do you think about Mordred?” She paused slightly, tilted her head, mouth opening to form an answer, but Diarmuid didn’t give her a chance to speak. He lunged forwards leading with Gae Dearge, sparks flying as Excalibur batted it away, Artoria bending from Gae Buidhe’s strike with ease. “It barely took you a day to speak to Lancelot when he was summoned. You were there waiting for Bedivere when he was summoned. You welcomed your younger self with open arms. You faltered with Salter and the Lion King, but in the end, you three came to an agreement. Yet a week has passed and you have not approached Mordred.” He continued forwards, striking with his spears, Artoria dodging and smacking his attacks away, confusion shining in her eyes. “Do you hate him?” He struck hard, Gae Dearg barely slid past her cheek as she leaned to the side.

“I-” She faltered, went on the attack, Excalibur pushing his two spears away, slipping in to nick his arm even as he spun out of the way of the strike, “Why are you asking me this, Diarmuid?” And he could have cursed to hear her voice, because, yes, it was Artoria’s voice, but it was her calm one, the one she used to hide what was going on beneath the surface.

“Two days ago,” he hissed, Gae Buidhe twisting around Excalibur’s guard, scraping against the metal of her gauntlets, “You came to ask me a question,” he struck again with Gae Dearg, Excalibur was tangled up with Gae Buidhe now, useless. Artoria twisted, stepping forwards, shoving him as Gae Dearg’s tip crashed against the ground. “You didn’t say anything to Mordred. You barely even looked at him.”

Finally, a reaction, her eyebrows narrowed, a frown crossing her face. “Of course I did not, he was in the middle of a duel, Diarmuid, we both know how rude it is to interrupt a duel.” Excalibur was untangled from his spear, the hilt headed towards his face, he bent under the blow, Gae Dearge swiping at her feet. She stepped on the spear, using it to bring Excalibur around, blade poised at his throat, but Gae Buidhe was already by hers. 

They separated, circled each other. “So why didn’t you approach him beforehand?” It made sense now, why she didn’t speak to Mordred while he was sparring with Achilles, a horrible kind of sense that Diarmuid could understand. But that still left so many questions unanswered. Ones that needed to be answered.

Something flashed in her eyes, shifting in their depths, and this time it was her who struck first, striking with Excalibur, sending Gae Dearg into the air as she went for the attack. He spun out of the way, swung with Gae Buidhe, she spun under it, chasing after him. “I do not know why this matters, Diarmuid.” Something in her voice, a bit darker, a bit angrier.

Good.

Artoria was like him, she would only admit to her problems if forced.

“Do you hate him?” He asked, running and turning from her attacks, blocking with Gae Buidhe, before kicking the fallen Gae Dearge at her. She dodged, the spear slipped through her armor on the side, barely a scrape. “Do you hate him?”

Her eyebrows narrowed further, “I do not -”

“Do you not?” Diarmuid asked, leaping into the attack, welding Gae Dearge two handed. They stopped for a second, arms straining, weapon pressed against weapon. “Do you know what he did, Artoria, after you turned away from him? He broke. He ran outside and raged, he punched the mountainside until his knuckles were bloodied and one arm was broken.” His voice was shaking, Artoria’s eyes widened, and he pushed harder, “He collapsed crying when we found him. Crying.” A sucked in breath, “By Lugh, Artoria, he’s my friend, but you are too, so I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt here. So just tell me, do you hate him?”

She stumbled back, Excalibur falling to her side, nudging Gae Dearg in his direction. “I do not hate him.” The words were whispered. 

Diarmuid swallowed, picked up Gae Dearg. “Then why -”

“I do not hate him.” She said it louder, lifting her gaze, glaring at him, and her face was wrong. Despair had never looked right on her face, and it didn’t look right now. “I never hated him.” A deep breath, “It is just,” her grip on Excalibur tightened, her jaw clenched. “I can acknowledge him as a knight, but not as my son. But I know he will not accept that, so it is simply . . . easier to stay away.”

“Except it’s not.” Diarmuid argued, “We both know problems like these have a habit of popping up when we least expect them. So, perhaps -”

“I can not -” She bit off the words, violently, and Diarmuid almost took a step back. “It is more than the fact that he destroyed Camelot, that was my fault.” And it was spit out with so much venom that Diarmuid couldn’t help but wince, “It is,” she choked, then her voice fell flat, devoid of emotion. “One night, Diarmuid, my coronation night, one night to secure the future of Camelot. One night for Guinevere and I to produce an heir. For the longest time, we believed it had not worked, only for me to find out nine years later that it did.” Her voice was shaking now, strained and a bit ragged, “That it was not Guinevere that I -” She stopped, sucking in a breath. “When I see his face, Diar, I see me, and do you know who else I see? I see my sister, who - who -” She closed her eyes, “I do not wish to speak of this.”

“I’m sorry, Artoria.” He murmured, because he was, because he understood. Gods, his own story was just as messy as hers, if not more so. Grainne under his curse, he under her gease. Neither of them had had a choice, tugged around by forces they had no control of. He knew what it was like, even though his story was not the same, even if he had come to love Grainne, just as he hoped she had come to truly love him in the end. 

She took a deep breath, then another. “I can handle being his king, but I am not sure I can handle being a father. Perhaps if it hadn’t been . . . her, then I might have managed. But -” it made it all the more horrible, “I am sorry for the trouble I have caused. But acknowledging him as my son means acknowledging what she did to me. And . . . and I am not ready for that yet.”

“Artoria,” he said, and he said it softly, “have you explained that to him?”

She shook her head. “No, I do . . . I do not know how.”

“Can I tell you something?”

“You are going to say it anyway, no matter what I say.”

“True,” he tapped the band-aid on his cheek, “this curse, you know I hate it. For what it did to me, for what it does to others. I hate it with every fiber of my being. But it is also a part of me, one I cannot ignore. Mordred is like that for you, his story is like that for you, and it is intertwined with yours no matter what you do. Ignoring him, refusing to acknowledge him, you are trying to ignore what she did to you. And I get that, but . . . you can’t, Artoria, it will pop up, and create problems. Not just between Mordred and you, but between you and Irisviel, and I know you don’t want that.” He sighed, “What I’m trying to say is, I think you should at least try to talk to him, to get some of this through to him. I’m not saying for you to forget, I doubt you’ll ever be able to, but what I’m saying is . . . don’t let it control you. Don’t let her control you.”

For a long moment Artoria was silent, then she spoke again, soft and quiet. “I . . . will think of your words, Diarmuid. I can not promise anything, but I will try.”

“I’ll hold you to that promise.” He murmured as they got into position again, ready to clear the air with their normal sparring session. 

Artoria did not hate Mordred. The situation wasn’t great, but Artoria did not hate Mordred. He could work with that. He would have to work with that.

“I’m not human,” Mordred wasn’t sure why that was the first thing that rushed out of his lips, spilling into the air, but it hung there, impossible to take back. He sunk into his seat, glaring at the desk, “I’m a homunculus.”

“Hmm,” Chiron said, and Mordred didn’t like that gentle, thoughtful tone, “I thought you were Artoria’s son?”

“I  _ am _ ,” Mordred snapped, “Morgana made me from her DNA. So  _ yeah _ , I’m a homunculus, and  _ yeah _ , she’s my father.” But she  _ didn’t  _ want to be his father,  _ didn’t  _ want him. He sucked in a deep breath with his teeth, wrestling with the anger and despair that warred within him. Chiron made a soft noise in the back of his throat, then took something out of a drawer and threw it at him. Mordred caught it, stared at it. “What the  _ hell  _ is this?”

“A stress ball,” Chiron said, then, a bit dryly, he added, “Achilles’ antics are enough to test even my patience sometimes. Go ahead, try it.”

Mordred looked down at the ball. It was a disgustingly bright shade of yellow that reminded him of Cu’s stupid Hawaiian shirts. He rotated in his hands, stared at the smiley face on the other side, then squeezed hard. “It’s foam,” he said, a bit surprised.

“Yes,” Chiron murmured, “wonderful stuff, foam. I would say even Hercules would have a hard time destroying that.” He tapped the table, “Mordred, how old are you? Not the fake age you told Achilles, but your real age.”

Mordred glared at the ball. “I don’t see how that matters.”

“Humor me, please.”

“I’m nine.” He muttered, he didn’t like saying it, admitting it.  _ God _ , he felt so small.

“And how long did you spend in Arturia’s court?”

“Last three years of my life.” He spat out, squeezing the ball,  _ “Why?” _

“Do you know the most important years of a child’s life, Mordred?” And Chiron’s voice was very, very soft, “It is ages one through three, and I believe those years are doubly important for a person whose growth rate is accelerated like yours was.”

“I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”

Chiron huffed, “You have even less patience than Achilles. Very well, in your situation, where your only influence was Morgana, where all you knew in those crucial stages of life was her training, what would you expect that child to turn out like?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.” Chiron raised an eyebrow, and Mordred slumped, “Angry, bitter . . .  _ broken _ .”

“Conditioned to follow her every whim, to be unable to think for themselves, to be nothing but a weapon.” Chiron finished, “But you, you managed, Mordred. You managed to fight her, to deny her, to carve your own path, despite it all.”

He squeezed the ball tighter, felt his teeth grind together. “Except I  _ didn’t! _ I  _ still  _ did what she wanted! I  _ still  _ destroyed Camelot! I  _ still  _ killed Father!” His voice was rising, “In the end, I  _ failed! _ I was  _ nothing  _ but her goddamned pawn! And it’s  _ my  _ fault! If I’d been  _ stronger _ , then it  _ wouldn’t  _ have happened! If I’d -”

“Mordred,” Chiron’s voice cut through his tirade and Mordred’s breath stuttered in his throat. “What age did you decide to make your own choices, to follow your own whims?”

“I was three,” he mumbled, he’d just seen Father for the first time, blown away by his perfection, wanting to be close to that light and goodness.

“Do you know what I think, Mordred?” And Chiron’s voice was very, very soft. “I think that you latched on to the image of King Arthur so hard, you managed to fight it all despite the odds. You built yourself up, made yourself, and even though Morgana tried her best to shape you, you resisted, and resisted, and resisted. You had that light in your hands, you were not going to let go, no matter what she did to you. I think that you were, and still are, a stubborn, willful child, who is strong, and brave, and did everything you could to become your own person. And succeeded.”

“But I  _ didn’t _ .”

“Are you what your mother wanted?” 

“No, but I -”

“Made yourself a Knight of the Round Table for your own goals, existed for years out of the influence of Morgana’s thumb, struggling with the problems she’d left you with, but still managing. I think you held your dream of being accepted for yourself for so long, and managed to keep it until that day. You tried your hardest to be who you wanted to be, and succeed, until you felt like you couldn’t anymore.”

“What I’m hearing,” Mordred growled, “is an A for effort but an F in execution.”

Chiron laughed softly, “I guess you could say that, although I’d give you a C in execution.” Mordred opened his mouth to argue, but Chiron continued, “After all, you didn’t do what she wanted until you felt like you had to, correct?”

“Well . . . I guess.”

“And now, you still aren’t doing what Morgana would want you to, correct?”

“. . . yes.”

“C+ then, passing, but with room for improvement.” Mordred burst out a choked of laugh, and Chiron muttered, “better than Achilles’ grade in self control. He has a flat F in that, a D- at best.” And Mordred couldn’t stop laughing then, gasping, bending over, chuckling until tears beaded at his eyes, feeling like . . . something had been lifted off of his shoulders.

“The problem is,” Mordred managed finally, “I  _ still  _ react like that, and I don’t know how to  _ stop _ .”

“Well,” Chiron said, “I certainly wouldn’t suggest avoiding the problem. That usually makes things worse. Talking helps, whether it’s to her, or to someone else.”

“I wouldn’t know what to say. ‘Hey, sorry I destroyed your kingdom, would you acknowledge me as your son?’”

“If you don’t know what to say, or if you aren’t sure you can say it to her face, then write her a letter.”

Mordred frowned, “A letter?”

“You don’t have to give it to her, but just, write. It might help get your feelings sorted out.”

“I -”

_ “MORDRED, WHERE ARE YOU!?” _ It was Cu’s voice, blasting loudly through his mind, and Mordred winced.  _ “You’re going to miss the party!” _

_ “Party? What fucking party?” _

_ “Your one week anniversary of being a Chaldean servant? Get your but over to the entertainment center! Or I will come over to wherever you are and drag you here!” _

_ “Okay, okay, sheesh.”  _ He stood, “I have to go. Here,” he offered Chiron the stress ball.

Chiron shook his head, “No, you keep it. And Mordred, think about what I said, and if you want to talk again, just contact me.”

Mordred, after a second, nodded, then left.

He nudged the entertainment room door open cautiously, not sure what to expect, feeling . . . raw after his talk with Chiron. Not bad, just  _ raw _ . So he opened the door cautiously, with that raw feeling rolling around in his gut, only to be met with light and laughter.  _ There  _ was Achilles and Cu and Diarmuid, arguing over something in normal Chaos Crew fashion.  _ There  _ was Beowulf and Martha and Leonidas, discussing something in excited tones.  _ There  _ was Fran and Proto, heads bent together, plotting something, and the briefest glimpse of red hair that might have been Kotarou.  _ There  _ was Gudao and Mash and Irisviel, chatting softly. And when the door opened, slowly and imperceptibly, with Mordred standing in the opening, staring at the streamers and the cake and the banners hanging from the wall, they all turned and yelled, “HAPPY FIRST WEEK AT CHALDEA, MORDRED!”

And Mordred could feel his grin split across his face, the raw feeling smoothed away, because this . . .  _ this  _ was something he’d never had before, not even with the knights.  _ Acceptance _ .  _ Friendship _ .  _ Family _ . This was  _ good _ , something he  _ wanted _ , something he wanted to fight  _ for _ . And he would. So he stepped forwards into the light and laughter and the welcoming cheer, ready to celebrate his first, tumultuous week at Chaldea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra Scene:  
> Fran: (signing) . . . my romantic problems.  
> Mordred: You have romantic problems? How the hell do you have romantic problems? You’ve been here for like, three days!  
> Fran: (internally) How are you so oblivious  
> Fran: (signing) Yes, I have romantic problems.  
> Mordred: Why didn’t you tell me? I could have helped.  
> Fran: (internally) This, this right here is the problem.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On today’s agenda: The last memory, press F to pay respects for Jalter’s sanity, the dino gets its revenge, a wild Artoria appears, Chiron is continues to be #1 teacher, and a conversation about a kidnapping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy smokes you guys, you're too nice to me, thank you so much!!! For everything!!! Also, I have something completely unintentional but hilarious to show you: Achilles, Beowulf, Cu, Diarmuid, Einzbern (Irisviel), Fran, Guda = abcdefg . . . I have no clue how that happened but there you go! I hope you all enjoy this chapter and have a wonderful day!
> 
> As always, possible triggers, so please be careful!

_ Mordred is nine and he looks like he’s sixteen and he’s standing in a battlefield, blood soaking into the ground, bodies lying about like discarded dolls, the sky above him painted red like rust or dried blood. Another knight falls before him, weak and useless and pathetic, and Mordred turns, his voice raw and rough. “Is King Arthur here?!” He’s not sure who would answer, the battlefield is filled with nothing but the dead, he is the sole one standing now. “Where is the King of Knights?!” _

_ A knight rises from the ground, struggling to breath, tries to attack, and Mordred takes his arm, watching him fall as the blood sprays through the air. He plants his sword in the ground, leans on it, panting. He has fought so many, and they have all fallen before him. Even Sir Gawain, supposedly immortal under the sun, has died to his blade and his rage.  _

_ He stares out at the dead, shoulders shaking, unsure of whether he is crying or laughing. He could not be Father’s son, and now he is his enemy. Father would not face him, and now Father would have to face him. Father had made Mordred nothing to him, and now Mordred is the destruction of Camelot. He has succeeded in his goal, the glorious reign of Camelot has fallen with a hill of dead bodies and a river of blood. _

_ He coughs, his mouth is cotton, sweat plastered to his forehead, throat dry. He is a wreck and he knows it, but he has been in worse shape before and he will not let it stop him now. _

_ He’s not sure what makes him turn around but he does, and Father is standing there, on top the hill of bodies, golden light of the sun gracing his battle gown and his hair and his shadowed face. He is a painting, perfect in every way, and Mordred will see him dead. He can already feel the rage building at the back of his throat again, burning through his veins, hot and dangerous. Powerful.  _

_ “Well?” And his voice is still rough and pained, but it is wild now, filled with strength, “What now, King Arthur! This is the end of your kingdom! Face the consequences for not recognizing me as King!” As your son.  _

_ Father’s only reply is to bring Excalibur up, ready. _

_ “Is it hate?” And he hates how desperate he sounds, “Do you hate me?” Because at least it would be something beyond the cold indifference. It would be something, and Mordred is willing to take anything by now. “You hate me because I was born to a witch?” _

_ His face may have moved, but it is impossible to tell.  _

_ “Answer me, Arthur!” He is screaming now, rushing forwards, Clarent heavy in his hands. It has all built up to this, everything, his life, Arthur’s reign, Morgana’s plots, it has all built up to this one defining moment.  _

_ He is Mordred Pendragon and he is fearless. _

_ He is Mordred Pendragon and he is strong. _

_ He is Mordred Pendragon and he hates. _

_ He strikes, Clarent coming down hard, and Father blocks it, Excalibur flying from his grip, landing in the blood soaked soil yards from them. Father straightens, his face still blank and cold, and for once, he speaks, voice calm and collected, as if this weren’t some battlefield, as if it weren’t the fall of his kingdom. “I have never hated you.” _

_ Mordred turns to him, disbelief in his face, hope blooming hot in his chest. _

_ Father lifts his hand, Rhongomyniad in his grip, “If you want to know why I did not give you the throne . . .” Then he is moving, faster than Mordred’s eyes could track, and agony blossoms, impossibly real. Rhongomyniad shatters his armor as if it is nothing, entering his chest, bursting through his back, and now it is the only thing keeping him up right. He can’t help but make a small, pained noise at the impact, something he hasn’t done since he was one. Because it hurts. It is the second worst thing Mordred has ever felt, next to Father’s rejection. Father’s voice again, cold and indifferent, distant, face still shadowed even though Mordred wants him to look, to just look at him. Is that so hard? “It was because you do not have the capacity to be king.” _

_ As if that was the only thing this was about. _

_ Not just one facet of what Mordred wanted.  _

_ His helmet shatters, his blood sprays into the air, and there is a cold numbness creeping up from his chest, into his limbs, a sluggishness that freezes his rage into something stagnant.  _

_ This was not what he wanted. _

_ Mordred is nine and he looks like he’s sixteen when he calls Arthur “Fa . . . ther,” aloud to his face for the first time. _

_ Mordred is nine and he looks like he’s sixteen when he sees his arm lift Clarent, bring the sword down between Father’s neck and shoulder, shattering his armor, wedging into his chest, blood splatting against the ground, staining his battledress and the silver of his armor and the steel of Mordred’s blade. _

_ Mordred is nine and he looks like he’s sixteen when he kills his father. _

_ Mordred is nine and he looks like he’s sixteen when he dies by his father’s hands. _

Mordred woke up choking, tears running down his face, throat and nose clogged up, dream still lingering in his mind. He could still feel it, Rhongomyniad through his chest,  _ painfull _ , the numbness that had spread from the strike. He would have expected it to be  _ warm _ , the light of Father’s spear, warm like his hatred, burning him up, but it  _ hadn’t  _ been. Instead, it had been mind numbingly, searingly  _ cold _ . Perhaps because he hadn’t been alive enough to feel the heat of it, or perhaps because it had been so hot it had felt cold. He didn’t know, he just knew the phantom pain that clung to his chest with every breath, the feeling of the cold air on his wet cheeks, the sounds of his harsh sobs in the empty room.

At least, and this was a token silver lining, he could look forward to no more memories. That had been his last.

And he didn’t feel like fighting tonight, not with the sour taste of blood on his tongue and the feel of Father’s last strike lingering in his bones. He wasn’t sure he could handle it, a fight, the pull and push of battle. So, instead, he pushed himself up, slowly, wiped the tears from his cheeks, drew in a couple deep breaths, and thought,  _ “Fran, are you up?”  _ He sounded  _ too  _ small and  _ too  _ scared and  _ too  _ young, but that was better than sounding like he was breaking apart into jagged shards.

Nothing, for the longest time nothing, and for a second or two, he was half convinced she was asleep, then her voice came, filtering slowly through his mind.  _ “Yes . . . I’m . . . awake.” _

_ “Okay, okay,”  _ he swallowed, closed his eyes, forced them open again,  _ “Is it okay if I come over?” _

_ “Yes . . . I’ll . . . come . . . get . . . you.” _

_ “Thanks.”  _ He pulled his knees to his chest, tried to ignore the phantom pain that had yet to go away. For what felt like forever, he waited like that, in the darkness, alone and silent, rocking back and forth. Until,  _ finally _ , a soft knock at his door. He pushed himself up, wiped his eyes again and went over to open the door. He leaned against it, and tried to grin. “Hey Fran.”

She gave him a look, eyes flashing behind her hair, hands rapidly signing.  _ Please stop trying to be tough, you don’t have to be around me.  _ She smiled, something soft and gentle.  _ Grab a pillow and come on. _ He nodded silently, false grin shattering, grabbed a pillow, then stepped out of his room, closing the door behind him. She gave him another one of her small smiles and started down the hall. He followed after silently. He wasn’t in the mood to argue, or to talk, just . . . he didn’t want to be alone.

It turned out, Fran’s room wasn’t far from his, a couple doors down and he slipped inside as she held the door for him, feeling silly about last night. Perhaps he  _ should  _ have contacted her. He stood there awkwardly, the pillow held tight to his chest like a shield. “Fran, I don’t -” the words tangled in this throat, and he sighed heavily, not sure what he’d been about to say.

She touched his arm, and he looked at her, watching her hands flash as she signed.  _ Do you want to talk about it?  _ He shook his head. If he talked about it now, he would break like badly made glass, and he didn’t want to break anymore then he already had. He just wanted . . . just wanted someone to be there in case he did. She didn’t push, and he was grateful for that, just sighed and signed,  _ Take my bed, and go to sleep. _

“I’m not -”

She glared at him.  _ When was the last time you slept? Actually slept? _

He didn’t look at her, glared at the ground as if it had done it’s damndest to kill him.

“Uh,” she said, and he glanced at her, and her face was gentle when she signed,  _ Sleep, Mordred. I know we're Heroic Spirits, and we don’t need it, but you’ll feel better properly rested. And if you wake up, remember that I am here for you. _

Slowly, he nodded. “Okay, okay,” a sharp, sucked in breath, “thanks Fran.”

_ No problem, now sleep. _

He laughed, not bitter or broken or harsh, but something a bit softer. “Alright, sheesh. You’re a menace, you know?” She giggled, a quiet burble of sound, and Mordred allowed himself to fall face forward into her bed and let the darkness claim him. 

This time, his sleep was unplagued by dreams.

Cu hummed contentedly, face buried in Emiya’s neck. He could feel the weight of a book on his back, hear the soft rustle of pages as Emiya read. “So,” Emiya said, one hand threaded through Cu’s hair, “Are we going to talk? Or are you just going to lay on me until I have to go to the kitchens?”

“You could not go to the kitchens today,” Cu suggested half heartedly. This was Emiya he was speaking too, the end of the world couldn’t stop him from going to the kitchens. Had yet to stop him, at least. “How long do you have?”

“Thirty minutes. Come on, Cu, it’s been a day and whatever happened is eating you up.”

He was right, they both knew it, and Cu sighed heavily. “Emiya, how do you feel about Mordred?”

Emiya’s hand stopped carding through his hair as he considered the question. “Well,” he said finally, his voice a bit dark, “I don’t like him, but I can understand a bit of what he went through. We both . . . we reacted similarly when we were desperate and thought we had no choice.” He tapped Cu’s shoulder softly, “You want to help him.”

“Mhm,” Cu confirmed, nodding against Emiya’s neck, “He’s my friend,” he thought of Mordred, of his crouched and shaking form, the bloodied knuckles and the broken rocks, snow falling down heavily upon the scene, “and, he’s not in a good place right now.” No, he wasn’t, that was an understatement, but if the past day or so was anything to go by, the small Saber wasn’t letting his breakdown stop him. Cu sighed heavily into Emiya’s neck. “He deserves his happy ending too.” 

Didn’t they all?

Emiya hmmed, and it was his thoughtful hmm, “You can do it,” he said finally, his voice forcefully calm, “You helped me.”

Cu poked him, “You helped yourself.” He made a disagreeing noise and Cu pushed himself up to glare down at him. “You did.”

He smirked, grey and gold and amber eyes gleaming in the darkness, “Uh huh.”

“Ass,” Cu grumbled, falling on top of him again, “You’re baiting me.”

“Is it working?” Emiya asked, a bit cheekily.

“Maybe,” he mumbled, because yeah, he was feeling better. Manipulative bastard. He really was, nobody believed Cu, but that was the truth of things. “Do you really have to go in today?”

“Yes,” Emiya said, “I do.”

“Come on,” Cu whined, playfully now. “There are plenty of people in Chaldea who cook. Let them take over for once.”

“Cu,” Emiya sighed.

“Emiya~,” Cu parroted back. 

“Urgh,” Emiya pressed his hand against Cu’s face and pushed him off, “you’re ridiculous.” But there was laughter under his voice, a smile in his eyes, barely hidden.

“Am not.” Cu shot at him, lounging back onto the bed while snatching the book that had fallen against the covers. It was a recipe book. Because of course it was. Emiya literally had the Throne of Heroes knowledge at his fingertips, and he still used recipe books. “You’re the one whose ridiculous.”

Emiya groaned, “It is too early to get into a childish argument with you.” He got off the bed, and Cu watched him stretch, grinning lazily. “Go be productive and think of a way to help your friend.”

Cu stuck his tongue out at his back, even if Emiya couldn’t see the motion, basking in the warmth that bloomed in his chest. “Aww, such a big softy, Emiya~”

“Cu! I am not a softy.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“Are -”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP ASSHOLES!!! IT”S TOO EARLY TO BE UP! IF YOU SPEAK AGAIN I WILL BURN YOU BOTH TO ASH!!!”

“Sounds like Jalter’s angry.” Cu sang under his breath, and Emiya huffed a laugh.

“Your fault, you know.”

“Oi, Emiya~.”

“Don’t give me that.” Emiya turned and smirked at him, “Are you getting up too? Or are you just going to lay there?”

“Well,” Cu mumbled, “Since I’m already up, might as well get moving. Think this is early enough to catch Leonidas’ training thing?”

“Probably,” Emiya left for the bathroom, Cu could hear the splash of the facet. For a few moments, he stared up at the ceiling, thinking. He could still see Mordred tear stained face in his mind, the broken arms, the bloodied knuckles. He thought of Emiya, so long ago in their first Holy Grail War together, how he had done everything in his power to change his path even if he failed, over and over. Similar, he hadn’t thought about it before, but he could see it now. Two people who had lost it all and would do anything at all to return some meaning to their life. And that meant Emiya was right, Cu could help Mordred, even if all could do was be there for the small Saber, he could help him. 

That was, after all, what friends were for. 

Mordred waited for the rest of the Chaos Crew outside of the cafeteria.  _ Somehow _ , and he wasn’t sure how he had managed this, he’d slept through breakfast. He was currently blaming Fran for not waking him, but she had brought him back some food, so he wasn’t  _ angry _ , just vaguely annoyed. And, admittedly, feeling better about . . . not everything, but about some things. Apparently, a full night of rest did that to him, even if he didn’t really need it. He still felt kinda bad about standing up Kotarou, though.

He kicked the ground mindlessly, watching the light catch on the steel caps of his boots. 

The cafeteria door opened, and Diarmuid stepped outside, running a hand through his hair. “Mordred,” he said, his voice . . .  _ odd _ , and Mordred didn’t like the tone, whatever that tone was, “you mentioned a dinosaur yesterday.”

“What,” Mordred grinned, a bit viscously, “you wanna fight it?”

Diarmuid’s eyes flickered, “I’m sure Achilles and Cu would enjoy the action.” As if he too wasn’t chomping at the bit. “Will you join us?”

“Nah, you fight one dinosaur, you’ve fought them all.” Mordred managed, somehow, to keep a bored, semi-disinterested tone in his voice. He would not ruin this by laughing in Diarmuid’s face. He would  _ not  _ ruin this by laughing in his face. He would  _ not _ . Distraction came, preventing disaster. “Hey Achilles. Cu, what happened to you?”

Achilles shrugged as he held the door open for Cu, who looked like he’d been run over by a train one too many times. “Don’t know, he looked like this when I found him.”

“Leonidas,” Cu wheezed, leaning against the wall.

Mordred’s jaw dropped, “You  _ went?! _ ”

Diarmuid huffed a laugh, “Is it as bad or worse than Scatheth’s training?”

“As bad,” Cu gave up leaning against the wall, and slumped fully against it, “in a different way. What’s the plan for the day?”

“Dinosaur,” Diarmuid said.

“Dinosaur?” Achilles asked, beginning to grin.

“Dinosaur?” Cu questioned, straightening, eyes gleaming.

Mordred grinned. Those poor suckers. They would have no idea what hit him. 

And, if one of them had told Gudao,  _ well _ , it would serve them right.

“So,” Mordred said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket, glancing around. Computers, wires, glowing screens, a couple of chairs, a couple of keyboards. Generic security room shit, at least he assumed so. He’d never been in a security room before. “This is the security cam room?”

“Yep~” Da Vinci sang, “You better not touch anything!”

“I won’t, just give me the tape once they're done.”

She beamed, “I’ll give you a copy.”

“Eh, good enough.” He leaned against a table, staring at the monitors. In one, the small forms of Achilles, Cu, and Diarmuid could be seen, armor on and weapon’s ready, already surrounded by trees and bushes. 

“Anyway,” Da Vinci said, “I do have a few things to do, so keep an eye out, make sure nothing too out of control happens, and contact me something does!” Then she was breezing out of the room, waving goodbye, and Mordred was left with a treasure trove of cameras and screens and tapes.

And no clue how to use any of it.

He stepped up to the monitors. There had to be a way to make the dino fight into a big screen, right?  _ Right? _ There  _ had  _ to be. He stared down at the buttons on the keyboard, clueless. He chose a button at random, began to press, “Ah . . . I wouldn’t do that.” Mordred stopped as Kotarou appeared from the shadows beside him, in a dark hoodie and sweatpants, “What are you trying to do?”

Mordred jerked a finger at where the rest of the Chaos Crew had startled at some noise, probably the dinosaur’s roar, “I want that on this big screen here so I can watch their utter humiliation.”

“Ah,” a few clicks and few taps, and suddenly the simulation room video filled one of the larger monitors, “did you tell them?”

“Nope. Did you dissect the simulation and tell Da Vinci what was wrong with it?”

“Hai.”

For a few moments they were silent, watching as Achilles, Cu, and Diarmuid argued briefly on the screen before heading towards the noise. “Sorry that I didn’t come last night,” Mordred blurted out, “I just . . . didn't feel like fighting.” He almost recoiled as the words left his lips. They  _ didn’t  _ sound like him, and the tone sounded almost  _ too  _ apologetic to truly belong to him. Gosh, he was such a  _ mess _ .

“You’re fine,” Kotarou mumbled, “I . . . ah . . . I don’t go every night either.”

On the screen, the dinosaur had been located, large and scaly and dangerous. The three were splitting to flank it, guards up, weapons ready. “Hey, what do you think of Proto?” Mordred wasn’t sure why he was asking,  _ no _ , he knew why he was asking. Curiosity. The type of curiosity that led to people poking things that looked and or smelled really disgusting. Also, Proto had been  _ so  _ pathetic yesterday, Mordred kinda wanted to know if there was any hope for him.

“Ah . . .” Kotarou fell silent, “He’s okay, I suppose. Brave . . . ah, a bit reckless, friendly, skilled in what he does. Why?”

Mordred shrugged, “Dunno. Just wanted to know.” Poor Proto, doomed from the beginning. Mordred would mourn for him at his funeral.

“Ah.”

On screen, the battle had begun. Cu took the dinosaur’s tail to the chest, sending him flying against one of the trees so hard wood cracked and splintered. Achilles and Diarmuid were running around, cutting it’s legs, because, as tall as those two were, the legs were the only things they could reach on the creature. “Da Vinci said to get her if anything goes wrong, right?”

“Hai.”

“What’s the definition of wrong?”

Kotarou stilled for a moment, “Ah . . . good question.” On screen, the dinosaur chomped down on Achilles and the Rider disappeared down it’s gullet, limbs flailing for the brief few moments he was visible. “Should we . . .?”

“ _ Nah _ , it’s Achilles. He’s  _ fine _ .” Probably. Cu pushed himself from the wreckage of his tree and lunged into the fray. Diarmuid was using his spears to flip onto the dinosaur’s back where it couldn’t reach him. “They have this under control. We managed, after all.”

“We had TNT.”

That  _ was  _ a fair point. “Where did you even manage to find some of that stuff? Can’t imagine that was easy.”

“Ah . . . I found it in Fuyuki. Just took some . . . ah . . . just in case.” Of course he had. On screen, Diarmuid had managed to stab the dino in the eye, blood running down it’s scales. Cu was frantically avoiding the tail, flipping over it again and again. Achilles was still in it’s stomach. “Are . . . ah . . . are we sure they’ll be okay?”

Mordred snorted, “Those three will be  _ fine _ , otherwise they’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Ah . . . so no getting Da Vinci-chan then?”

_ “Nope.” _

“So,” Mordred said as Achilles and Cu and Diarmuid filtered out of the simulation room an hour later, “Have fun?”

“You ass.” Achilles grumbled, wiping his hair even though there was nothing in it. “You knew. And I’m going to have to take a shower. By Zeus, I can still feel it’s stomach acid.” He shuddered.

“Hate you,” Cu grumbled, collapsing face first against the ground, “Agh, my ribs.”

Diarmuid, who had come out the best of the encounter, meaning only minor scrapes and bruises, chuckled, his eyes gleaming knowingly. “Should we apologize for whatever we did to you?”

Mordred paused, should they? They, or at least one of them had told Gudao. But, then again . . . he shrugged, “Nah, you guys are good. Come on, let's play rummy or some shit like that.”

Diarmuid bowed, “As you command.”

Cu and Achilles just moaned.

Mordred left the cafeteria feeling full and satisfied. He’d had to go back three times to get this content with the amount of food he’d eaten, but it had been worth  _ every  _ moment of it. Voices caught his attention, and he glanced down the hall. The first person he recognized was Lancelot, his eyes dark as he glanced down at Mordred. The second person was . . . was  _ Artoria _ , the  _ youngest  _ Artoria, in a light colored sundress and her hair pulled back with a giant black bow. They were discussing something, or she was trying to reassure Lancelot of something, it didn’t matter.

It  _ didn’t  _ matter.

Because in the end, this  _ wasn’t  _ the Father that had rejected him.

But he  _ still  _ found his breath stuttering in his throat, the old, familiar rage tug at his insides. He snorted harshly, pushed his hands deep into his pockets, ignored the stiffness in his shoulders and started down the hallway. Perhaps that Archer lady, Tomoe, would be in the entertainment room. He would beat her this time, he was certain of it. And he needed something to blow off the steam that was building up inside him.

He  _ ignored  _ the glare Lancelot was sending his way.

He  _ ignored  _ the Father-that-wasn’t-Father’s gaze.

He  _ could not  _ ignore Father-that-wasn’t-Father’s voice, the light and childish sound of it, nor could he ignore the gentle patter of feet against the hallway. “Mordred! Where are you going?” He stopped, turned to stare at her, watched her eyes widen in surprise, her hand covering her mouth. “Oh! I forgot to introduce myself!” She curtsied, “I am Lily, it is nice to meet you.” She smiled, bright and cheerful.

Behind her, Lancelot sent Mordred a glare, meaning clear. Hurt her, and he would pay. Then the most skilled Knight of the Round Table turned and walked down the hallway, leaving the young King of Knights and the Knight of Treachery alone.

“No, you’re not.” Mordred said blankly, because the rage that had been building up had frozen in shock. “I kill you, I destroy your kingdom, you  _ can’t  _ be happy to meet me.”

She hesitated, “Well, that is true. But that is all in the past, is it not? We’re allies now. And it wasn’t me you did that too, it was future me.” She fiddled with her fingers, then straightened and beamed again. “I liked the movie you picked out.”

Mordred took a step back. “What game are you playing?” 

Her cheerful expression dropped, her lips pursed, “What? Am I not allowed to check up on my adorable son?”

_ And _

_ the  _

_ world  _

_ stopped  _

_ moving _ .

They were in one of the offices, and Mordred  _ didn’t  _ remember how they got there or why they were there. He  _ didn’t  _ remember sitting down, whether he’d been forced or whether he’d simply collapsed into the chair.  _ All  _ he could think was that Lily had called him  _ son _ . Had  _ acknowledged  _ him as her  _ son _ , the word repeating  _ over  _ and  _ over  _ in his mind. And the breath had caught in his throat at the impossibility of it, because  _ how  _ could  _ she _ ?  _ How  _ could this younger version of Father just calmly spit out what she would  _ deny  _ and  _ reject  _ in the future? How could she?  _ How  _ could  _ she _ ? It didn’t make sense. It  _ didn’t  _ make any  _ sense _ .

“I am sorry,” Lily was saying, her voice gentle and worried, “I did not realize - would you like some water? Anything?”

_ “Why,” _ and it came out as a harsh rasp, “if  _ you  _ can -” acknowledge him “- then  _ why  _ can’t  _ she?” _

“I,” Lily sighed, sat a little bit away from him. Her face was more open then Father’s, showed the worry more clearly, and it all seemed so  _ wrong _ .  _ How  _ could he be having this conversation?  _ How  _ was it possible? “I can not answer for my older self, but I can assure you, she does have her reasons.”

“Well isn’t that just  _ wonderful _ .” Mordred snarled, fighting back the rage that threatened to bubble up. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the stress ball Chiron had given him, squeezed hard. It helped, a little bit, but it helped.

“I am not her,” Lily continued, “that has been made abundantly clear to me during my time in Chaldea. I am not her. But I have her memories, they just . . . do not affect me in the same way. I know what you do to me, and I know what happened to cause you to do that, but I am not the same person who did that to you. I am . . . removed from those memories because they have yet to happen to me, so I can acknowledge you as my son.” She smiled, “Does that make sense?”

“No - yes - I,” he sucked in a harsh breath, “but  _ you  _ aren’t  _ Father _ .”

“You are right, I am not.” Lily sighed, “but I would still like to try to get to know you, a little bit, at least. And, I really did like the movie you picked.”

“I - give me a second,” he squeezed the ball harder, sucked in a deep breath, feeling it rattle in his lungs. The rage, the surprise, it was lessening now, still fluttering in his chest but under his control.  _ “Fine.” _ He rasped out, “ _ Fine _ , okay, we can, fine. What do you want to do?”

Lily straightened in her seat, delight flashing across her face. “Have you ever played chess before?”

Mordred cracked open the door, slipped inside the room, sat down, and glared at Chiron. The Archer was bent over a computer, and a look of concentration on his face, glasses perched on his nose. For a moment, Mordred was tempted to throw the stress ball at him, but he sighed heavily instead and rocked back in his chair, balancing on the back legs, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what the  _ hell  _ had just happened.

Lily and him had been playing chess for the past three hours and he  _ didn’t  _ know what to do. She was so  _ different  _ then Father, so open, more prone to laughter and smiles, the glimpse of the person Father used to be. And she had  _ called  _ him  _ son _ , just once, but it was more than Father ever had.  _ And  _ he was spinning, lost, and he wasn’t even sure why he was here, in front of Chiron, waiting as the Archer finished whatever he was working on. 

Except Chiron had said that if Mordred ever needed to talk, then he would be there. And he hadn’t judged yesterday,  _ had he? _ And perhaps he would know  _ why  _ Lily had approached him, because Mordred still couldn’t quite believe it. “Hey, Chiron,” and his voice sounded too loud in the silence, and worse, it sounded just as confused as he felt.

“Yes?” Chiron asked, turning from the computer.

“Lily approached me,” he said, glaring at the ceiling, squeezing the stress ball in his hand. “Lily approached me, and . . . we hung out for a while. She’s not terrible.” He scowled, “She called me son. She acknowledged me as her son. So  _ why  _ can’t  _ Father  _ do the same  _ thing?!” _ He heard his voice rising, because he  _ knew  _ it was possible now. Lily had acknowledged him, which meant that there was the  _ chance  _ Father could too.

But Father  _ didn’t  _ want him, she’d made that abundantly clear.

But Lily  _ had  _ acknowledged him, so the possibility was  _ there _ .

He felt like screaming, or raging, or  _ something  _ because it didn’t make sense, and he didn’t like this hope that had lit in his chest, fluttering softly, threatening to go out because it  _ would  _ go out the minute Father looked away again, the minute Father rejected him again. Because she  _ would _ , it was obvious, Father  _ didn’t  _ want him, Father had  _ never  _ wanted him. So  _ why  _ had Lily accepted him?

“Hmmm, that is something, isn’t it?” Chiron said, “Did Lily tell you why Artoria rejected you?”

_ “No,” _ He growled out, “She didn’t. Said she probably knew why, but it wasn’t her place to say.” He could hear the fury building in his voice, he squeezed the stress ball tighter, felt it bend beneath his fingers. 

“Well then, I would assume that whatever the reason Artoria rejected you, it has to deal with a memory Lily knows about but didn’t personally experience. Which means she didn’t reject you because of your personality.”

“What.” It came out flat, his anger frozen.

“If,” Chiron continued, “it was something she experienced that caused the rejection, then your personality would have little effect on the decision. Otherwise, Lily wouldn’t have accepted you, would she have? It is an outside force, either you did something, Artoria did something, or -”

“Morgana did something.” Mordred said, sullenly.

“Yes,” A pause, “How did she get your father’s DNA?”

Mordred jerked a shrug, “Dunno, she never told me and I never asked. I didn’t even realize I had a Father until she told me. I mean, I knew that, theoretically I had to have had a father, but . . . I never knew who it was.” He groaned. It was  _ all  _ so fucking  _ complicated _ .

Chiron made a noise, something almost . . . annoyed. Perhaps disgusted. Mordred looked at him, the Archer’s normally calm face was darker, shadows clinging to his eyes. “I think,” he said, “that if what I’m thinking is correct, that Lily was right not to tell you. That is not knowledge that should be spread without permission.”

“Whatever,” Mordred grumbled, trying to ignore the faint flicker of something in his stomach. He remembered the dream from last night, the words Father had spoken to him as he died. “Besides, my personality had something to do with it.  _ She  _ said I wouldn’t have made a good king.” And he’d been so  _ angry _ , though looking at it now with Kairi in his mind, she was right. He would  _ not  _ have been a good king, he’d had too much to learn, too much to figure out. But  _ wasn’t  _ that the point of a parent? To teach their children? King’s  _ weren’t  _ born, they  _ were  _ shaped, and Mordred had  _ needed  _ someone to shape him. “She was right.”

“You agree with her?” Chiron asked, as if surprised, but when Mordred glanced at him, his face was neutral, perhaps encouraging.

“Yeah, I do. I knew  _ jack-shit  _ about being king. I hated humans,” still did on some level, or at least resented them for their easy lives. But Kairi had been human, Gudao was human, it wasn’t as simple as it used to be. “I was rude and angry and bloodthirsty, still am.” He sighed, feeling the sound scrape against the back of his throat, “and I  _ didn’t  _ understand what being king meant. I would have been a horrible king.”

“But you learned better, what changed?”

“I found someone who believed in me,” He could feel a grin slip onto his face, despite the anger that still tugged faintly at his bones, “He believed in my abilities, in my strength, and still laughed and treated me like a person, as a friend. I learned what I’d truly wanted all along, what I had been blinded to in my anger. He told me I would have made a good king.”

“And do you believe him?”

For a long second, Mordred froze, then slowly, he nodded. “Yeah, I do. If I’d gotten the chance to learn, if I’d had the chance to change into the person I am now, then  _ yeah _ , I would have made a good king.” He could feel something in him, a weight in his chest, lift at the words. He would have been a good king. The  _ best  _ king.  _ Better  _ than Father. He had just needed time, and he’d had that time, time enough to figure out what he  _ wanted _ , time to figure out what  _ type  _ of king he wanted to be.

Chiron smiled. “Good, it’s good that you realize that. It’s good that you acknowledge that. This person, he was your Master, correct?”   
“Yeah.”

“What happened to him?”

“He died saving my life.” Mordred sighed, felt the grief roll over him and nest in his chest, a dense ball that was hard to swallow, “ _ best _ Master I ever had. Don’t tell Gudao.”

A conspiratorial smile, “I won’t.”

“What happened to yours?”

“She survived, she survived and began to work on making her wish come true. Chaldea, Mordred, is more than a place for second chances, it is more than a place for stories to gather, it is a place for wishes. My Master, she wanted to use the Grail to walk, and she found her way to walk without it. Wishes take work, Mordred, lots and lots of work before they can become reality.”

“Wishes take work.” Mordred repeated. He saw, for the briefest of seconds, Father pulling Caliburn from the stone, sun shining, breeze tugging at her hair and clothes. “Wishes take work.”

_ Mordred has found heaven, and it is in an all you can eat buffet, a seat worn but still plush, and a table full of food. His Master’s voice is quiet in his mind, and if she needs him, she can use a command seal. He needs a break from her cautiousness, needs to see this new world for himself. And what a world it is, full of cars and planes, amazing clothes, places where he can eat to his heart’s content. It is fucking amazing, and he is bound and determined to experience as much as possible before this war ends with his victory. _

_ Because it will end with his victory. _

_ Something clicks in the back of his mind, a Servant’s presence revealed, across the road, in an alley, rapidly making their way towards the restaurant. Mordred stiffens. Assassin? Surely he wouldn’t be stupid enough to attack here. There are too many witnesses, too many innocents. And his instincts aren’t screaming at him, no, it is just wariness tugging at his bones. So he focuses on his meal as the door opens and jingles, eats while the Servant approaches his table, warry but not drawing Clarent just yet. And he only looks up when the Servant sits down in front of him. _

_ Not Assassin. _

_ Archer. _

_ “What the hell do you want Archer?” He says it around a mouthful of food, although he is tempted to grab the plate and smash it against the man’s face. That would be a waste of a meal though, and Mordred has skipped too many in his life to allow that to happen. _

_ “You eat like Artoria.” His jaw works, as if he hadn’t meant to say the words, but Mordred isn’t focused on that. Artoria, Artoria, something in his mind connects the pieces, bits of info the Grail had given him. Artoria . . . does he mean Arthur? _

_ He swallows, raises an eyebrow, sets the fork down, and clicks hard against the wood. “You know Father? I don’t recognize you.” If he’d been one of Father’s knights, Mordred would have known. But the grey eyes and the white hair are entirely unfamiliar, and his armor is more modern than Mordred would have expected from one of his fellow knights. Without the red mantle, he almost looks like he is in normal clothes. But it explains the questions, explains how he knew Mordred’s name.  _

_ Archer shrugs, and speaks. “Well, it’s been a long time since then.” There is something in his voice, the forced blankness of it, that sends Mordred’s instincts screaming. This man is barely holding himself together, is ready to attack at any instant, hates him, but is still taking the time to talk to him. It must be important, whatever it is. _

_ Mordred snorts, “No shit,” then grabs his fork and begins to shovel food back into his maw. It no longer tastes good, instead it’s like ash and dirt in his mouth, but he needs something to do, needs to move. And if Archer isn’t going to start a fight, then Mordred isn’t going to give him one. Too many people around for a proper brawl, anyway. “You don’t like me very much.” _

_ Archer grits his teeth, “Is it that obvious?” _

_ “Yes.” _

_ “Good for you, being so perceptive.” And the sarcasm in those words could have melted through stone. _

_ Mordred waves his fork for emphasis, “It’s a look I’ve been on the receiving end of multiple times before. Now, what the hell do you want.” He can’t stop the promise of violence in his voice, doesn't even try. Archer doesn’t like him? Fine, that is fine, Mordred doesn’t like Archer either. _

_ “I have a proposal for you, I know where Berserker and Assassin are.” _

_ “Eh?” And Mordred grins, sharp and hungry and bloodthirsty, the excitement building in his body, burning through his veins. Both Berserker and Assassin, now this is an interesting turn of events. “Berserker and Assassin? That sounds exciting. Why not have your boyfriend help?” He shoves another mouthful of food into his maw, chews while Archer’s composure crumbles. _

_ First, Archer freezes, then he jerks forwards, palms hitting the table. “You know about that?” The words are hissed, angry and mortified, the tips of his ears going red. _

_ Mordred raises an eyebrow again, and says, “It was supposed to be a secret?” If so, they’d done a piss poor job of hiding it. Honestly, there are only a few reasons two Servants would help each other out in battles and have clandestine meetings on top of buildings. Although Mordred had only known about the last one because he’d been walking the streets and had felt their presence.  _

_ Archer pinches the bridge of his nose and groans. _

_ And Mordred loses it, bursting into laughter because this is priceless. Absolutely priceless. “Oh God, you two are the absolute worst at hiding it. Oh, fuck, that’s hilarious!” _

_ “Shut up,” Archer growls. _

_ Mordred continues to laugh. _

_ Archer jerks his head up and glares at him, fury simmering in his eyes. “It is because of Cu that I am here today, talking to you instead of ending your life.” His voice is dark, angry, but Mordred doesn’t care. _

_ He smirks instead, as if. He is Mordred Pendragon, the only one to have bested the King of Knights in battle. He has brought down a kingdom, has killed a man immortal under the sun, has survived everything Morgana had thrown at him. This Archer would be nothing compared to what he has already faced. “Big words, Archer. You better hope you can back them up. So, tell me why you need my help instead of your boyfriend’s.” _

_ Archer growls again, and Mordred is beginning to believe that he does that a lot.  _ _ “Assassin took Cu’s Master, therefore they have Cu -” _

_ “Really? I’m in.” _

_ Archer freezes again, “Just like that?” He sounds disbelieving, and Mordred strangles the rage that threatens to build at that tone of voice. Too many people around, he has to remember that, there are too many people around. _

_ So instead of punching Archer and breaking his jaw, he shrugs. “I’m a knight. Rescuing people is what knights do, idiot. Just tell me one thing though,” and because Archer is an ass, and because Mordred doesn’t like him, and because he can’t fight him right now, he leans forwards, smirking. “I assume Cu wasn’t near his Master when they got snatched, so does that mean his Master got snatched while the two of you were fu-” _

_ “Shut your mouth,” Archer growls, his face going redder than the hot sauce on Mordred’s plate. _

_ “I’ll take that as a yes.” _

_ “We . . . were . . . not . . . fucking.” Archer sputters, and Mordred just grins and returns to his food with single minded concentration. Archer has said what he needed to say, and now he will leave Mordred to his meal. Except he doesn’t. Except he asks. “Why did you do it?” _

_ And Mordred freezes, his instincts screaming, fork halfway to his mouth. “Do what?” He already knows what Archer will say. _

_ “Why did you kill her?” _

_ Father, Arthur, the one Archer calls Artoria. He wants to know why Mordred killed Father. And for a moment, Mordred isn’t in the all you can eat buffet with a meal before him and an enemy servant across from him. He is in Camelot, sun painting the walls with blood, screaming at an empty room, rage clouding his mind, taking control of his body, his thoughts. And he can feel the rage now, building, burning, taking over. It takes all of his control not to take Clarent and behead the man in front of him. With effort, he shuts down his face, locks down his voice, sets down his fork in case he shoves it through Archer’s eye. “You,” and his voice is quiet and still, but all he can hear is his screams echoing off stone walls in an empty room, “want to know why I killed Father?” His eyes narrow, he can feel them, and then, because his fingers are itching for the weight of Clarent, he forces a sigh and picks up his fork and begins to eat. Just one bite, just one swallow, because it no longer tastes of ash and dirt, it tastes of the porridge Morgana would give him, old and moldy, the type that would make him throw up, that left him questioning whether it was poisoned or simply bad. When he speaks again his voice is flat, but he is staring at a stone golem, a sword’s unfamiliar weight in his tiny hands. “Do you know what it’s like to live with Morgana as a mother?” He can hear metal squeak as his grip tightens, the fork, he doesn’t care. “My siblings were lucky, most of them didn’t have to deal with her for long. I’ll give you a hint, I wasn’t her son, I was her instrument of revenge. She wanted me to kill Father.” _

_ Father who was supposed to save him but had rejected him instead. _

_ “Are you going to tell me you lost some kind of battle with her and was forced to kill Artoria?” Archer’s voice is bland, but Mordred hears the anger and disbelief that turns it into pure sarcasm. _

_ And Mordred laughs, sharp and angry, and he can see something flash across Archer’s face, recognition maybe, Mordred doesn’t care. “Hardly. Killing Father was my choice. Destroying Camelot was my choice. But Father,” he struggles with his voice, how could he have been so stupid? Stupid enough to care for a person who would never acknowledge him, “was everything to me. Everything. But I,” and the anger breaks through into his voice, burning in his throat, painful, “was nothing to him.” The words are spat out, he can hear the fury in them. “So I made myself be something for him. If I could not be his son, then I would be his enemy. If I could not follow him without him facing me, then I would leave him to make him face me. That was why I killed him. Not because of Morgana and what she tried to mold me into. It was Father’s choices that led to that battlefield, it was my choices that led to his death.” For a second he wrestles with it, the anger, the hate, then he begins to eat, a welcome distraction, despite the taste. There are civilians here, he can’t let it go now.  _

_ For a long time Archer says nothing, and Mordred doesn’t care enough to wonder what is going on in his mind. Finally though, he speaks, and his voice is colder than dry ice. “Do you regret killing her?” _

_ Yes. No. He’d accomplished his goal. It wasn’t what he wanted. Mordred looks at Archer, at his clenched fists and the fury buried deep in his eyes. “I don’t know.” _

_ Archer stands, digs out a piece of paper from his pocket, tosses it onto the table. “Meet me there at nightfall.” _

_ Mordred looks at the piece of paper as Archer leaves the restaurant, crosses the street, back into his alley. For the longest time, Mordred can feel his presence there, then he disappears. He reaches out, opens the piece of paper, feels the smoothness of it against his calluses, notices the wrinkles and the fact that the words are written in cursive. Shit. He’s such a crap reader, but after a little bit, he is able to make out the words.  _

Dear Archer,

You were not as careful as you thought you were.

We know of your meetings with Lancer. We know what you two mean to each other.

We will keep this brief. We have Lancer. We control whether he lives or dies. You will come to the Fujō Building tonight at twelve, or we will kill him. 

It is your choice whether he lives or dies.

We look forward to seeing you.

_ “Tch. Cowards.” Mordred folds the piece of paper, shoves it into his pocket of his jeans. “Hey, Master,” he thinks, “Got an invitation to a big fight. If we play our cards right we could finish this. Are you good for that?” _

_ For a long time, no answer, and Mordred is half afraid that she’ll say no. This will be the biggest fight this War, he has to be there. Then  _ _ Ilsi Von Einzbern’s voice slips into his mind like a winter wind. “Go, go and be careful.” _

_ He snorts, turns back to his food. “No worries, Master. I’m the strongest Saber Servant, there is no way in hell I’ll lose.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you have to copy a scene from a previous fic and paste it to a blank document, then transcribe it onto another document from another person's point of view, making sure that every bit of dialogue and motion matches up, then you have to change the tense, and then you run into something you wish you worded better but you can't change it because of REASONS.
> 
> . . . I'm never doing that again.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For your consideration: puzzle pieces, rayshifting, Mordred would be great friends with Rocket Racoon, proper hand to hand technique, the worst drivers, and my best Violet Evergarden impression except you don’t get to see it just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! First off, thank you so much for all your comments and kudos, I treasure each and every one for they give me life. Second off, this might be my favorite chapter so far, so be ready for that. Third off, I hope you have a wonderful day and stay safe out there!

Mordred woke in the darkness of his room, staring at the ceiling, his breath coming, for once, easy after a dream.  _ Damn it _ , he had thought he was done with that  _ shit _ , the memories. But no, he remembered that day, how the night had ended. Fighting Beowulf, killing Archer, going back to his Master mostly dead, only to find out that she was the Grail and he would not be getting his wish. He blew out harshly, because it had been  _ nice _ , despite how the night had ended, despite the fact that Archer had kept prying, because for the first time in a long time he’d gotten to truly act like a knight.

He’d gotten to save someone, even if it had all gone to shit.

He’d gotten to do something knight-like, like he’d wanted to since he’d first seen Father.

A knight, an actual knight, they type good stories were written about, instead of the Knight of Treachery, the boy who took down a kingdom in revenge for his father’s rejection.

Mordred groaned, and rolled out of bed, looked at the time. It was before breakfast, about an hour or two before. He could go to the simulation room and fight with Kotarou, but he had rotation today. He could see if Fran was up, but he had woken her up yesterday, and he had taken her bed. He’d just go ahead and hang out in the rayshift room until it was time. He got up, got dressed, and headed out.

The halls were dark and empty as he walked through them, and the effect was almost eerie. Gone was the bustling crowds, Servants and robots and people, all traces of life disappeared as if they’d never been. Just empty hallways with the occasional robot cleaning, lights flickering eerily in the dark . He couldn’t help but feel like he was the only person there, his footsteps echoing off the walls, and he  _ didn’t  _ like the feeling. He blew at his bangs, shoved his hands in his pockets, turned the corner.

And nearly ran into Archer.

The Archer from the Holy Grail War he’d won, the one Cu was in love with, Emiya. Mordred stepped back, glaring up at him, while Emiya looked down at him, raised a single eyebrow. “What are you doing up this early.” Not unfriendly, carefully constructed. Mordred remembered the nod Emiya had given him, after lunch his second day. Something in his chest eased. They were not going to fight, at least not right now.

“I have rotation.” He said, not unfriendly either. “You?”

“I have to start prepping the kitchens.”

Mordred made a face, “It’s like,  _ five thirty _ in the morning.”

“I could say the same to you.”

He rolled his eyes and stepped out of the way. “Whatever.” They started walking again, opposite directions, Emiya to the kitchens, Mordred to the rayshift room, before Mordred halted and turned to stare at him. “Why’d you do it?”

Emiya stopped, turned to look at him, “Do what?”

“That night, during our Grail War, you could have killed me. I was halfway there already, but you let me win, why?”

Something shuttered in his eyes, there then gone. “I was . . . figuring stuff out.”

Mordred snorted, “No shit.” Another pause, the silence pressed on them, neither moved, waiting for something to give in. Mordred bit the inside of his cheek, then spat out the words. “I regret it, you know.” 

“I don’t hate you.” Emiya said in reply. 

They understood each other, that was good, one less person Mordred would be likely to blow up. But still . . . he rocked back on his feet, let a grin stretch across his face “Well, good. Because I’m pretty sure Cu’s going to ask me to attend the wedding.”

Emiya’s face went red, his hand came up to cover his eyes. “There is,” he growled out slowly, “no wedding. Gudao has too much shit to deal with to throw a wedding into the mix.”

Mordred smirked, “ _ Sure _ , whatever you say. See you around, Emiya.” He waved, started walking down the hall.

“Artoria doesn’t hate you.” Said simply, and Mordred froze, breath stopping in throat. “Just thought you should know.” He twisted, opened his mouth to say something,  _ anything _ , but Emiya had already turned the corner and was gone from sight.

‘Artoria doesn’t hate you,’ Emiya’s words echoed in his mind, over and over again as he paced the rayshift room. ‘Artoria doesn’t hate you. Artoria doesn’t hate you. Artoria doesn’t hate you.’ He  _ knew  _ that, she had told him that on his deathbed. She didn’t hate him. She didn’t think that he had the capacity to be king. But Mordred had changed. Diarmuid had claimed Artoria had changed, and the Father Mordred had known would have never opened herself up to anyone, but she had, apparently, just not to him. And Lily . . . Lily had acknowledged him, had told him there were reasons. Of course there were, there  _ had  _ to be reasons.

Father didn’t hate him.

Father didn’t believe he had the capacity to be king.

Mordred did not hate Father, was angry at her, yes, but did not hate her.

Mordred did have the capacity to be king.

Lily had accepted him.

Father had rejected him.

Lily had said there was another reason why Father hadn’t accepted him.

Chiron had said that the reason was for Father to say.

It felt like he’d been tossed the pieces of a puzzle  _ without  _ a picture or box or guideline or  _ anything _ , and was expected to put them together anyway.  _ How  _ did they fit? How  _ could  _ they fit? Some of them didn't, that was obvious. Father didn’t think Mordred had the capacity to be king. Mordred did have the capacity to be king. That he knew, so could he take what Father believed off the list? Remove that piece? Or was it  _ still  _ important?

He felt like screaming, because it was  _ just  _ so  _ frustrating _ , so  _ confusing _ , he wasn’t even sure where he was leading up to this, but it felt . . .  _ important _ . And Mordred  _ knew _ , knew better than most, to trust his instincts. Wherever he was going with this, it was important. It was  _ important _ . Father didn’t hate him. He didn’t hate Father. Father didn’t believe he had the capacity to be king. He did have the capacity to be king. Lily had accepted him. Father had rejected him. Lily claimed there were reasons. Chiron said those reasons were for Father to say. And they were in Chaldea, 2,614 years after the fall of Camelot. England was hale and whole, well, it would be once the world was saved. Father was not needed to be king. Mordred did not need to become king, the desire was there, but it wasn’t  _ needed _ . So remove the shit about being king. What did he have then?

Father didn’t hate him.

Mordred didn’t hate Father.

Lily had accepted him.

Father had rejected him.

Lily had said there were reasons for Father’s rejection.

Chiron had said that Father had to be the one to tell Mordred those reasons.

He stopped pacing, glared at the wall. He couldn’t think about it like a puzzle, he was  _ shit  _ at puzzles. Math, an equation, he needed to think about it like that. He might have been  _ shit  _ at reading, but math was a different story. Father didn’t hate him. Mordred didn’t hate Father. Those two added up to they didn’t hate each other. Lily had accepted him. Father had rejected him. Those two canceled out. He was left with three things.

They didn’t hate each other.

Lily had said there were reasons for Father’s rejection.

Chiron had said that Father had to be the one to tell Mordred those reasons.

. . .

He had to talk to Father.

That felt right, even if something in him recoiled at the words. He _had_ to talk to Father. Not to demand that she recognize Mordred, not to demand the throne, but to ask, _why?_ _Why_ had she rejected Mordred? _What_ were her reasons? And he would only find that out by talking to her, by asking her. But the last time he had seen Father, she had turned from Mordred without a word, and Mordred had punched stone till he had broken an arm and collapsed crying. And the time before that, he had locked himself in a room and had panicked until Diarmuid had unwittingly snapped him out of it. He _couldn’t_ face Father, he _didn’t_ know how to face Father without being transported back to Camelot and Camalan.

Chiron had told him he couldn’t avoid the problem, and he was right. Eventually, Mordred would be put on rotation with Father, or one of the other Artoria’s. They were simply too strong not to be put on the same team, and Mordred knew Gudao would try his best not to make it happen, but Mordred also knew how the world worked. It threw things at people they were not ready for, and he  _ had  _ to have this fixed or  _ at least _ on it’s way to being fixed before that happened.

He  _ had  _ to speak to Father,  _ had  _ to get to the point where he didn’t blow up or freak out at the sight of her. He was  _ Mordred Pendragon _ and he was fearless. He was  _ Mordred Pendragon _ and he was strong. He was  _ Mordred Pendragon _ and he could do this. But the very thought of facing Father made him freeze. Lily had been okay, because she  _ wasn’t  _ really Father, was too different to count. But Father, actually  _ Father  _ . . .

Small. He needed to start small. Chiron had suggested a letter, and Mordred, well, he wasn’t very good at writing either, but his penmanship was passable, Morgana had made sure about that. Perhaps,  _ perhaps  _ he could start with that.  _ Perhaps  _ he could begin with that.  _ No _ . No perhaps about it. He  _ would  _ begin with that. 

He was  _ Mordred Pendragon _ and he would do this.

The door cracked open, “Hey! Mordred!” A loud, boisterous voice, deep and rumbling, and Mordred turned to see Beowulf enter the room, grinning widely. “It seems like we’ll have to finish our battle with who can destroy the most enemies.”

Mordred felt a grin split his face, and for once, it wasn’t the prospect of battle that did it. He felt . . .  _ good  _ about his decision. Very good. Apprehensive, yes, but  _ good _ . And he liked the feeling, like he was finally getting control of his life.  _ “As if _ I’d lose to you.”

Beowulf snorted, loudly. “Puh-lease. I’m going to crush the competition, squirt.”

_ “Squirt?!”  _ Mordred spluttered, “HEY! I ain’t no squirt! You  _ wish  _ you could walk through doorways without banging your forehead!” Beowulf threw back his head and laughed, loud and long, and Mordred joined in his laughter, feeling lighter than before. He would write a letter to Father. No more running. No more anger. It would take work, yes, but it  _ would  _ happen. He would  _ make  _ it happen. Perhaps . . . perhaps Father wouldn’t accept him, perhaps she would reject him again. But this time, this time Mordred would not be alone. He had his friends to stand by his side, to help him accept whatever outcome would come. 

Still, unease, fear, anger, it coiled in his gut, a dense ball despite the lightness. Father might reject him, and he would still be angry. That he would be unable to stop. But _ this time _ he wouldn’t let it control him, _ this time  _ it wouldn’t be the thing he fell back on. So he grinned and said, “Who else is on rotation? Besides your ginormous self, that is.”

Beowulf chuckled, his laughter fading. “Not exactly sure, Gudao’s changed things up a bit, trying out a new group of people. It will be interesting to see how it works out.”

“Fun. How long do you think it will take for the rest to get here?”   
Beowulf shrugged, leaning against the wall. “Not long, I assume. All that’s left for us to do is wait.”

“Uuuuggghhhh.” Mordred groaned, falling back against his own wall. “I hate waiting.”

Beowulf chuckled, “Of course you do.”

Mordred opened an eye, “What is  _ that  _ supposed to mean?”

Beowulf’s face was a blank mask “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

Mordred flipped him off and he chuckled again. They fell into silence, calm, comfortable, and Mordred leaned his head back against the cold metal and allowed the feeling to sink past his skin, into his bones. He was halfway to dozing off before the door banged open,  _ loudly _ , so hard he knew that it had to have made a dent in the wall. “Ooops!” A voice said, a woman’s voice, wild and worried, “Ah darn,” Mordred opened his eyes to watch the dark haired woman mess with the door, a wide eyed, almost pleading look on her face. “No, wait, please stay straight, please stay straight.”

“You broke the hinges, Sanzang,” Beowulf said, vaguely amused.

“Again?” The woman, apparently Sanzang, whined. “ Aw man, I guess I’ll just leave it like that then.” She patted the door, which now hung crookedly open, like it was a lost dog or mournful pet or something, then turned, wiping her eyes as if she’d been crying over said door, and gave Mordred a blinding smile. “Hi! I’m Xuanzang Sanzang, but everyone just calls me Sanzang! Are you interested in learning about Buddha?”

“Not particularly,” Mordred answered.

She pouted, but didn’t seem overly upset. “Okay then, it’s nice to meet you Mordred!”

“I didn’t -” no, he knew her. He knew her from Camelot. “Ah, I’m sorry about . . .” he shrugged, waved his hands around, then shoved them in his pockets, “Camelot,” he finished, lamely. What more was there to say?  _ Sorry  _ for slaughtering dozens in the name of the Lion King?  _ Sorry  _ for imprisoning her?  _ Sorry  _ for being a mad dog trained to bite whatever moved? 

Sanzang clasped her hands together, as if in prayer, “You’re forgiven. Good morning to you, and good morning to you too, Beowulf.”

“Good morning.” Beowulf waved a lazy hand. 

She beamed at him, then turned back to Mordred, eyes shining, “So? How are you liking Chaldea? I know the first week can get a bit tumultuous, I got lost, like, six times in the first day!” Her lip wobbled, her eyes teared up, but then any sign of crying was hidden once again beneath a beaming smile, “I hope yours was less troublesome!”

He’d had multiple breakdowns, broken his arm, got thrown to Nightingale for skiing, had been thrown to the cleaners for nearly getting Beowulf and himself killed, and that was only the tip of the iceberg. “Eventful.” He said, shrugging. “Didn’t get lost much. There are signs on pretty much every corridor.”

“Romani put those up because Sanzang kept on getting lost.” Beowulf commented.

Sanzang pouted again, “Well, this place is huge! And there is so much stuff! And so many shortcuts! And I managed to get myself unlost every time!”

Beowulf pointed to her and mouthed ‘Luck EX’. Mordred barely prevented himself from wincing. He was never going to play cards with Sanzang.  _ Never _ . “Sounds like an adventure.” He offered, and she beamed at him. 

Footsteps against the metal flooring, and this time it was Mash and Gudao who entered, slipping past the broken door. “Adventure? What adventure? And why is the door like that?” Gudao mumbled.   
Sanzang turned, beaming widely. “Favorite disciple number one! And Mash! Good morning! We were talking about how easy it is to get lost in Chaldea!”

“Good morning.” Mash said cheerfully.

“Ah, I see. Mornin’.” Gudao yawned. “We still have a couple of people that need to show up, then we’ll be off.” Another yawn, and Mash reached out to grab his shoulder as he wavered. “Thanks Mash, just need to wait on -” A third jaw cracking yawn.

Mordred stared at him. “Are you okay?”

“He’s always like that in the mornings.” Beowulf said. “He’ll clear out of it soon enough.”

Mordred hoped so. He would  _ hate  _ for someone to get hurt because Gudao fell asleep on the job.

“Good morning everyone!” And this time it was Irisviel’s voice, light and cheerful, “We’ve brought food.” She entered with a smile and a basket on her arm, closely followed by . . . Bedivere, who held a thermostat in one hand. “And we also have apple cider for our sleepy Master.” 

Mordred  _ froze  _ for the briefest of moments, then forced himself to relax. Bedivere had welcomed him, or at least, if not welcomed him, then had said he would be glad of Mordred’s strength. And they had worked together before,  _ long _ , _ long ago.  _ Hopefully, the battle would help them fall into old patterns, and would sweep away the weight of the past, even if it was only for a bit. “Morning.”

“Good morning,” Beowulf said with an answering cheerful grin and a glance at Mordred. 

“Good morning,” Bedivere said with a nod in Mordred’s direction.

“Morning!” Sanzang said.

Gudao grabbed the thermostat from Bedivere’s hands with a murmured ‘thanks’, ignored Mash’s ‘careful, senpai,’ and chugged the drink. When it came down, his eyes were much more alert, and he grinned at them all. “Okay gang, that’s enough with the mornings. Let's get this show on the road!”

Like last time, Mordred hated the sensation of rayshifting, the feeling of being  _ made  _ and  _ unmade _ , and this time was no different. He collapsed on the forest floor as soon as he solidified, dry heaving, trying not to throw up. He felt a chill sink through his armor and into his skin, and the nauseousness receded. “There we go,” Irisviel murmured. “Better?”

“Yeah,” he worked his jaw, straightened. “Thanks.”

She smiled at him, then moved on, “Anyone else feel nauseous?”

“Me.” Sanzang whined pitifully from where she had collapsed backwards against the ground, staring at the sky with a pout on her face and sweat on her brow. Irisviel laughed and placed a finger against Sanzang’s forehead. The monk’s sickly shaded skin immediately cleared up, and she bounced into a standing position. “Thank you!”

Beowulf snickered, “Rayshift sickness, Mordred? I hope that won’t impact your ability to fight.”

Mordred grinned at him. “ _ As if. _ Do I get something when I win? Otherwise I’m afraid that this competition will be a waste of my time.”

“No.” Gudao said, in a tone that brooked no argument, “No competition, and no bets. You hear me? No.”

“Master,” Mash called, “There’s a clearing over here.”

“It would be a good place to have breakfast.” Bedivere added.

Rayshifting, Mordred decided quickly, was not enough to negate the effects of Emiya’s cooking. And he knew that it had to be Emiya’s cooking because it had been Emiya he’d run into in the halls, and it tasted like the godsent cooking he’d tasted when Cu had set aside a plate of Emiya’s cooking for him. Which begged the question, just how long had he spent trying to figure out what the  _ hell  _ he wanted from Father? Eh, didn’t matter, and Mordred sure as  _ hell  _ wasn’t going to focus on that when there was delicious food in front of his face.

Except there  _ wasn’t _ , because his plate was already empty.

He stared at it in horror, eyes wide, mouth gaping. He didn’t remember eating it so quickly. And there was  _ nothing  _ left for seconds. He was going to  _ starve _ . He was going to fight on an empty stomach and collapse from  _ starvation _ . He glanced at Beowulf’s plate, there wasn’t much left to grab there. He glanced at Irisviel’s plate, it was about half full. Anyone else he would have to be  _ really  _ quick to snatch from, they weren’t sitting next to him after all. 

Hmm, Beowulf or Irisviel. Beowulf would probably fight him for the food, except that he couldn’t because Gudao had told them no fighting.  _ Did  _ stealing food count as fighting?  _ Nah _ . But Beowulf had seen Mordred eat before, he was probably already watching his plate. Irisviel, however, hadn’t seen him eat before, but she was close to Father, and if he stole her food then . . . Irisviel caught his gaze and laughed, “Here,” she scooped a portion of her food and dumped it onto his plate, “before you go on a foodie rampage.” She winked conspiratorially, as if it was an inside joke between the two of them.

Mordred stared at her, jaw hanging. “Uh, thanks!” He dug in, ignoring the questions that blossomed in his mind. Why had she done it? She didn’t have to. If she was Morgana, the food would have been poisoned, but she wasn’t Morgana.  _ Whatever _ , wondering was slowing him down, he had food to demolish.

_ Hands _ . They were fighting  _ hands _ . Giant hands that came up out of the ground with glowing gems hovering over their palms that threw firebolts and lasers and lightning. Because that was  _ apparently  _ a thing. It wasn’t a very intense battle either, yeah the things hurt like  _ hell  _ when they hit, but they didn’t move around alot, so he just had to get through a barrage of attacks to slice them down. “Twenty three!” He called out, twisting to let a burning arc of light blaze past him, feeling the heat even with his armor in the way.

“You’re falling behind!” Beowulf roared. “Twenty seven!”

Mordred snarled under his helmet, and in a burst of lightning, lunged through four more, Clarent slicing through their middles, bodies falling against the ground. “Twenty seven!” Ripped out of his throat, a challenge. 

For the briefest second, he saw Sanzang sweep by him, a long pole held in her hand, transforming into a different shape with each attack. He’d seen Bedivere a couple of times, His arm blazing white, the sword in his hands comparatively normal as he swung it. Irisviel had been a surprise, he  _ hadn’t  _ expected her to hurl swords made from strands of her hair, but she also healed part of the time, when someone, mostly Beowulf, got caught in a particularly gruesome blast. Mash was back there too, shielding Gudao from whatever the hands hurled in his direction.

They’d been at this for what felt like  _ hours  _ now, and sweat caked his forehead under his helmet, plastering his bangs to his forehead. Every near miss made the heat hotter, but at least it wasn’t the fucking  _ desert  _ this time. “Twenty nine!” Beowulf called out.

A roar, tangling in his throat, coming out in a low growl of fury. _ As if  _ he would let himself  _ loose  _ to Beowulf, not to something like this!  _ No _ .  _ Way _ .  _ In _ .  _ Hell _ . He was _ Mordred Pendragon _ , and he  _ didn’t  _ lose. He lunged forwards, Clarent sailing from his hands to bury itself deep into a hand, punching another one with a burst of electricity that jumped to another and burned bright for a good three seconds. Electrocuted. Dead, all three of them. “Thirty!”

“Thirty one!” Beowulf called back.

Argh! Mordred raced over, grabbed his sword, ripped it from the hand and swiped another in half. “Thirty one!”

“Thirty five!”

_ Stupid  _ Berserkers and their  _ stupid  _ madness enhancement and their  _ stupid  _ effectiveness against practically anything that moved! “Mordred!” It was sung over the battlefield, and Mordred glanced back to see Gudao grinning at him from behind Mash’s defense. “What to show us what you’ve got?”

His noble phantasm, Gudao meant his noble phantasm. “HELL YES!!!” He twisted around, backing up, lightning arching off his armor as his helmet deconstructed, allowing the fresh air to hit his face. He planted his feet against the ground, bringing Clarent up in front of him. Distantly, he heard Gudao yelling for everyone to go back, but he couldn’t hear much over the sound of his blood pulsing in his ears. Clarent’s guard clicked open, red light blazing across the blade, he could feel the heat of it against his face, the answering thrum of energy in his veins.  **“I’ll say this not as a King, but as a loyal Knight. Anything that disturbs the King’s peace will be crushed!”** He raised Clarent, felt the weight of it, heavy in his hands, buzzing against his palms, felt his anger building, bubbling,  _ burning  _ in his blood, the intensity almost painful. Was painful.

A touch at his shoulder, Bedivere pointed, “There.”

And Mordred  _ almost  _ shrugged him off, snarled and said he wasn’t needed, but Bedivere had already extended his hand, had taken that first step . . . so Mordred  _ grabbed  _ that extended hand,  _ took  _ the second step, turning to face the direction Bedivere had pointed,  **“Clarent,”** pulled from his throat, echoing in the air, harsh and loud and overpowering,  **“Blood ARTHUR!!!!!”** The name ripped from his chest, so hard he could taste blood, and for a second, it all flashed before him,  _ Camelot _ , _Camlann_ , all of it.  _ Mother _ ,  _ Father _ , himself, a hill of bodies and blood and swords, his anger petering out in his final moments.  _ Kairi _ , the belief the necromancer had held in him, the smell of his last cigarette hanging in the air.  _ Ilsi _ , how afraid she’d been, how she struggled through anyway, her delight at learning she had a few days left to live, no sentence hanging over her head.  _ London  _ and it’s misty streets, the endless nights fighting for a country he’d once tried to destroy.  _ Camelot  _ again, the Lion King, serving her with a devotion that was horrifying, simply because she acknowledged him.  _ Chaldea _ , with a host of friends by his side, supporting him, helping him, just being there for him. Clarent came down, light bursting from the blade, blasting forwards, an impossible tide, blazing red, redder than his lightning, redder than blood, redder than his vision that fateful night. His  _ rage _ , his  _ hate _ , weaponized, how he was remembered in history and legend.  _ Not  _ the weapon who managed to keep a sense of self,  _ not  _ the knight who had struggled with what Morgana had done to him but pushed through anyway,  _ but  _ the boy who’d brought down a kingdom because of his father’s rejection.  _ Powerful  _ enough to destroy  _ everything  _ in his path.

What had Gudao said? Don’t smother his anger, but channel it. He  _ couldn’t  _ do anything that wasn’t destructive, he wasn’t sure how. But he  _ could  _ do this. Use every scrap he built up for this. Because it was there, would  _ always  _ be there, written into his story and his spirit origin, waiting for him to use it, _ no matter _ what he did. And well, that was  _ fine _ . It was a part of him, clear to see as the energy burned its way through his enemies. It would  _ always  _ be there, would  _ always  _ be a part of him.

A part of him, but not controlling him.

_ Never again. _

He staggered back, planting Clarent in the ground, gasping for breath as he leaned against the sword. Their enemies, those fucking hands, had been destroyed, nothing but charred earth and burned trees for miles, the scent of smoke and ash heavy in the air. He grinned widely, straightened, slung Clarent onto his shoulders, and turned to his Master and his allies. _ “ _ Beat _ that.” _

Beowulf stared at the destruction, then crossed his arms and frowned. “I’m pretty sure that counts as cheating.”

“Well done, Sir Mordred.” Bedivere said.

Mordred shrugged, “Yeah, well, you’re the one who told me where to aim, so, half of those kills are on you.”

And very faintly, Bedivere smiled.

He’d fallen behind as they walked back to where they would be rayshifting out, armor dispersed, back in his civvies, jacket loosely tied around his waist. Bedivere walked beside him, still in his armor, silent as he’d been since the beginning of the trek. The silence was getting onto Mordred’s nerves, rubbing and fraying the edges of his patience. “Say whatever the  _ hell  _ you’re going to say,” he grumbled before he actually got annoyed.

“Lily told us that you played chess with her.” Bedivere said. “She likes you, and finds it refreshing that you’re willing to swear around her, despite the fact that she is the younger form of our King. Lancelot was horrified.”

“And you?”

“I was amused.”

Mordred sucked in a harsh breath. “And Father?”

“Was contemplative.” Whatever the hell that meant. “You’re different, you know,” Bedivere said suddenly, “then what I remember. Still rude, still overly confident, but, you know yourself better, a bit calmer, a bit slower to anger.”

“And?”

Bedivere stopped, and Mordred stopped to stare at him. The other Saber’s face was soft, almost gentle, and Mordred didn’t want to trust it, but this was  _ Bedivere _ . The guy had always worn his emotions like an open book. “I am not going to yell and rage about what you did, Sir Mordred. Because we all made mistakes, that day, and leading up to it. The fall of Camelot was not your fault alone.”

“You didn’t make a mistake,” Mordred pointed out, a bit harshly, “You stayed by Father’s side the whole time.”

Bedivere closed his eyes, “Yes, I did. The Lion King was my mistake, Sir Mordred. I could not let our King go, and something horrible came out of it. I could not return Excalibur to the lake, and so many suffered because of it.” He smiled, sad and soft, something bitter, but without any trace of anger. Acceptance, maybe. “I carry their deaths with me. I carry the weight of those years with me. Humans were never meant to be immortal.” He shook his head, then lifted his chin, taking a few deep breaths. “None of us are free from fault, except perhaps Sir Gareth, but that is all in the past. I’m trying to say that I am willing to make amends, for the sake of the future, and for the sake of the bonds we once had.” He held out his human hand, “Lancelot has agreed, although I know he is hiding something from me. But, the choice is yours, whether you want to or not.”

Mordred stared at his hand, goddamned  _ stupid  _ Bedivere. He was always so  _ honest _ , and Mordred always felt bad trying to tell him something he wouldn’t like. But, he wasn’t going to do that, not today. He was going to tell him the truth. “I’m trying, Sir Bedivere. I’m learning, and I’m changing, but I still have a long fucking way to go.” He grabbed his hand, shook it, hard. “But you know, what the fuck. Let’s do this!”

Bedivere smiled again, something much brighter and happier, “Good, that is good. Artoria’s birthday is in three days, and Lancelot, Emiya, Irisviel, and I have been planning something. We’re meeting tomorrow morning to finalize the details if you would like to come.”

_ Shit _ . He was right. Father’s birthday was in three days.  _ Fuck _ . How had he forgotten? “Yeah, I can come. Do you mind if the rest of the Chaos Crew do too? Or is that . . .”

Bedivere chuckled, “You’re friends are welcome. I believe Diarmuid had already planned to bring it up.”

“Ah well.” They started walking again, “Hey! Does this mean I can borrow your arm?”

Bedivere frowned. “No.”

“ _ Come on!  _ I won’t break it. I  _ promise _ .”

“Absolutely not.”

Mordred ended up getting four plates full of food, balancing them precariously as he made his way over to the Chaos Crew table. Cu grabbed two of his plates on the way to his own seat, grinning widely as he sat down and pushed the plates towards Mordred’s little section. “Better not choke.” He said cheerfully. 

“Like you’re one to talk,” Diarmuid murmured.

Mordred snorted, “Whatever. Have fun without me?” He sat, began eating. Ah yes, good food, a proper amount of good food.  _ Truly _ , the best thing in his life. Mmmm . . .  _ food _ .

“Absolutely not.” Achilles said, hand over his heart, “We’ve only had you for a week and we don’t know what we would do without you.”

“Achilles ran into a wall and broke his nose again.” Cu added, setting his chin on his hand.

“Guys,” Diarmuid muttered, “He’s eating. You aren’t going to get a reaction out of him.”

_ Damn  _ right they weren’t. Who cared about people? Not when there was food, yummy, warm, scrumptious, not poisoned food in front of him. He looked up briefly, noticed that Achilles, Cu, and Diarmuid were watching him with particularly amused expressions. “What?” He mumbled around a mouthful of delicious food. “You aren’t getting any.”

“Wasn’t thinking about it.” Diarmuid reassured him.

“I don’t want to be stabbed with a fork.” Achilles smirked, leaning back in his seat.

Mordred flipped him off and returned to his meal. Approximately fifteen minutes later, he resurfaced, recharged and ready to go. “We have to talk.”

“Ominous.” Cu said, picking at his own scraps.

“Sir Bedivere told me that he, Sir Lancelot, Irisviel, and Emiya are doing something for Father’s birthday, and invited me to go to the meeting tomorrow.” The words tried to stick in his throat, but he wouldn’t let them. “I want to go. I want to help them.” He worked his jaw, shovelled a couple more forkfuls into his mouth. Achilles looked as if he’d been hit in the face with a spoon, Diarmuid looked calculating, Cu looked as calm and cheerful as ever.

He was the one who spoke first, shrugging cheerfully. “If that’s what you want, then go for it. We sure as hell ain’t going to stop you.”

“I’ll be there anyway,” Diarmuid said slowly, “so we could all go.”

“Sure,” Achilles said finally, “I’m down.”

Mordred grinned, wide and delighted. “Great.”

Diarmuid stared at him for a few seconds, considering. Finally, he spoke, a knowing glint in his eyes and a smile playing across his lips. “You’re happy about something.”

Mordred returned to his food, “Just finally figuring out shit, that’s all.”

Diarmuid was right, in that annoying way the Lancer had. It reminded Achilles of Patrolious in some odd way, of conversations long since passed. _ ‘Patrolious, I bet I can hold my breath for an hour.’ ‘You’re going to drown.’ ‘Nah, I’m immortal, remember?’  _ Later _ : ‘I told you so.’ ‘Shut up.’  _ Yes, Diarmuid was almost always right, in that same way Patrolious had been right a good three fourths of the time. And yes, Achilles dreaded the day the two would meet and unite against him and Cu and Mordred, but that wasn’t the point he was trying to get at. The point was Diarmuid was right about one specific thing in the past few days. 

Achilles knew a lot about rage. The type of rage that made people do horrible things. The type of rage that made people lose control. The type of rage that made others look down upon otherwise flawless heroes. He knew about that rage. He’d suffered from it in Troy, after Patrolious’ death. He suffered it now, whenever Hector appeared like a ghost to taunt him. And he saw it in Mordred.

Except, and here was the thing, Mordred was trying to work through his anger, while Achilles refused to even consider that with Hector. 

So Diarmuid was right that he knew anger the best.

But Diarmuid might have been wrong when he thought Achilles could help Mordred with his own anger issues. Just a bit wrong. Possibly a lot wrong. But whatever, Achilles could take Mordred on if the Saber entered that rage. He was Achilles. The best of Greeks. Of course he could.

He just didn’t know how to go about that.

So currently he felt like he was taking potshots at a dartboard while wearing a blindfold. 

They separated in the lunchroom hallway like normal, Cu being dragged away by Alter with the words ‘obligatory rummy game’ and Diarmuid disappearing to spar with Artoria. Which left him and Mordred, standing there, in awkward silence. “Doesn’t Chiron have something for you to do?” Mordred asked finally, a bit cheekily. Ass.

“Hopefully not,” Achilles grinned down at him, “because I have a question for you. How much hand to hand do you actually know?”

Mordred stared at him, confusion written across his face, and Achilles could feel his stomach sink. By Zeus, he’d been right. The Saber didn’t know any hand to hand, he’d just been winging it. Oh gods, Achilles was never going to be able to watch Mordred fight again, because he would cry at every punch. But it got worse. “Hand to hand?” He asked, as if the concept was only vaguely familiar. “Do you mean -”

“No.” Achilles raised his hands to stop him. “No. I do not mean your punches and your kicks. Those are the uncoordinated flailings of someone who has never known proper hand to hand combat.” He hadn’t noticed it at first, but after the second time watching the Saber fight, he’d started picking up clues. Hooks instead of proper punches, sloppy blocks instead of solid ones, abysmal footwork. The only way he’d been pulling it off so far was because he was strong and fast and nobody expected someone to wield a bastard sword one handed and punch with the other fist.

Mordred sneered at him, “Well thanks for that.”

Achilles brought his hands to his chest and bowed his head. “I can not let this continue. I have a duty to uphold. You, my friend,” he set a hand on Mordred’s shoulders, looked solemnly at him “are going to learn proper hand to hand techniques.”

“I am?” Mordred asked.

“Yes,” Achilles nodded, “you are.”

The good news was that Mordred was a quick learner. He got stances down quickly, he knew how to block and dodge, and punches and kicks he picked up with ease. The bad news was that he relentlessly made fun of Achilles while he did so. “Are you sure you’ve taught people before?” He asked as he stood in his stance, jacket tied around his waist, grinning as if he hadn’t spent the past hour learning how to fight properly. Although that might have been why he was grinning, bloodthirsty child that he was.

“Yes, I have.” Achilles growled, shoving him, testing his balance. Mordred barely moved, and this time there was no spark of lightning to show that he was using his mana to stay still. “You’re just a quick learner, that’s all.” He wasn’t used to having his instructions taken and understood almost immediately. And now that he was thinking about it, the idea of Mordred having actual hand to hand combat skills was terrifying. 

Whelp. It was too late now. 

The door cracked open, Fran poked her head through. “Uh?”   
Mordred’s head whipped around, and Achilles used the opportunity to shove him again. This time, the Saber went sprawling. “Ow.” He complained, loudly.

“Hey Fran,” Achilles waved, resisting the urge to poke fun at Mordred for having his totally-not-a-girlfriend check in on him. Yeah, he couldn’t gossip about Mordred, but Fran? Fran was a different story. He had a suspicion Diarmuid wouldn’t agree, but hey! What the Lancer didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him! “Are you here for Mordred?”

_ Well I was, _ Fran signed,  _ but someone had a prior claim. If we could borrow him? _

“Yeah, you can.” He kicked Mordred lightly. “You see that? You’re being paged, Olympus knows why. I’m releasing you, but we’re doing this tomorrow after lunch. You are going to learn this if I have to beat it into you.” Which he shouldn’t have, thanks to Mordred’s scary fast learning abilities. But then again, he’d do anything to save his poor soul from Mordred’s lack of hand-to-hand knowledge.

“Fuck you too.”

“HEY! I’m trying to help!”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. See ya.” Then he was gone in a blaze of lighting, the door shutting behind him.

Achilles waited for a few seconds, then sent telepathically,  _ “Hey, Marie. Guess who just caught a little bit of gossip?” _

_ “Is this going to be good stuff, or is this going to be scraps?” _

_ “Well, I certainly can’t compete with your spy network -” _

_ “I’m hearing scraps. Fill me in during afternoon tea! Vive la France~!” _

_ “Yes ma’am.” _

To Mordred’s surprise, it wasn’t one of the other Chaos Crew members, or Proto, or Kotarou, who had ‘prior claim’ on him. It was Irisviel waiting outside, smiling cheerfully. “I’m really sorry about this Fran,” she said, eyes glittering, “you’re welcome to join us.”

_ No, no,  _ Fran signed, smiling,  _ it’s fine. I’ll just grab him afterwards. _

Irisviel winked, “If you need anything, just tell me, alright?”

_ Alright. _ Fran giggled.

Mordred raised his hand. “What is going on? Why am I being claimed? I didn’t agree to any of this.”

“Well, Mordred,” Irisviel pulled something from behind her back, “I found this game in one of the entertainment rooms. I was thinking of giving it a try. Want to join?” 

Mordred looked at the game. In big bold letters, written across the front, was NASCAR Heat 2. The Grail supplied the necessary information. “ _ Hell _ yes!” He shouted, pumping his fist. A racing game? Oh  _ hell  _ yeah! Irisviel would be tasting his dust! 

Irisviel beamed, “Thought so. Sorry that I’m dragging him away from you, Achilles.”

Mordred twisted to see Achilles step out of the room, rubbing his hair. “No problem,” he said, “I need to find Chiron anyway.” The rest was a mumbled, “and figure out how to teach people who learn really fucking quickly.”

Mordred snorted, grinning proudly.  _ Of course  _ he learned quickly! He kinda had too with Morgana’s training, but it was nice to have that quality applied to something that wasn’t  _ quite  _ as life or death. “You sure you don’t want to join us Fran?”

She shook her head,  _ Go ahead. I’ll be in the library reading. Medusa has a huge variety of books she’s recommended. And the change from philosophy and sciences in the times is quite interesting! Also, Gudao said he would be in there trying to catch up on his sign language.  _ Oh right, she was still meeting up with him after lunch. Mordred had forgotten.

“If you’re certain,” Mordred made a face, “Have as much fun with that as possible. See ya later!” He waved to Achilles and Fran, then started down the hallway, Irisviel’s eager laughter following him.

“YOU’RE CRAZY!” Mordred yelled, leaping up from his seat, jerking his controller as if it could possibly help.  _ How  _ was Irisviel in first place?  _ How  _ was she so good at this game? He had a riding skill! She didn’t! HOW WAS SHE BEATING HIM!?

Irisviel laughed, “Oh Mordred, not crazy, crazy skilled.” Her fingers flew over the controller, on screen, her black and blue car passed anouther. Second place now, and Mordred’s red and silver racer was currently stuck in fifth. “Better hurry up,” she sang, “We only have one more lap to go!” Mordred growled, mashing buttons, watching his car weave around another, push past a second. He could see Irisviel’s car now, slipping past another to take first.  _ As if  _ he would let her! His car jerked forward, hit the one in front of it, flipped over it, landed hard, skidded, then continued on. Irisviel whistled, “Nice.”

He smirked. “Did that with a real car once. Kinda.”

“Really?” Irisviel asked, her car screaming as it took a turn way too fast, colliding with the barrier. “I’ve driven too, you know. I’m pretty good at it if I do say so myself.”

“We’ll have to have an actual race,” Mordred grinned, “you know, once the world is fixed.”

“I’d love that!” Irisviel beamed, “and look at that, first place.” She set her controller down on her lap as fanfare played on the screen, loudly proclaiming her victory. “Second place isn’t bad either, Mordred.”

Mordred collapsed back onto the sofa, staring at the screen in horror, “Second place is first place loser,” he mumbled, then he shot up again, eyes blazing, “ _ Again! _ This time I’ll take first place!”

She laughed, light and delighted, “You’re on! But first off, I want to say thank you for playing with me. No one else will, even Artoria says it gives her nightmares.” She scowled faintly, “Which I don’t understand. I’m a good driver.”

“I  _ know _ ,” Mordred complained, “Kairi, my old master, was always like ‘Mordred, you can’t go 100 in the middle of a city.’ ‘Mordred, you’re going to run over someone.’ ‘Mordred, this isn’t a plane, you shouldn’t be lifting off the ground!’ And if it wasn’t  _ that  _ it was just incoherent screaming. He was like that when I flew the plane too.”

“You got to fly a plane? I’m jealous,” She sighed, leaned back against the seats, “but yeah, Artoria was always saying ‘There is a certain side of the road you are supposed to be on Irisviel.’ ‘Red means stop, Irisviel.’ ‘Irisviel, please slow down.’ And she would get this really weird look on her face when I went fast around the curves.”

“But you’re  _ supposed  _ to go fast around the curves!”

She shot up from her seat, “I know! It’s no fun otherwise!”

They glanced at each other, then burst into laughter, falling back into their seats. Irisviel with her light giggles, Mordred with his loud guffaws. “I can’t  _ believe  _ Father can’t take a bit of speed.” He managed to get out between laughs.

“I think she gets motion sick,” Irisiviel said thoughtfully as soon as her giggles died away, “She couldn’t stand the roller coaster either.”

“Roller coaster?” Mordred asked, leaning forwards, the controller dangling between his fingers, game forgotten. 

Irisviel nodded, eyes gleaming, “They’re rides they have at places like the carnival we went to. They go really fast and have large drops and loops and all kinds of things. They are so much fun!” She squealed the last bit, smiling delightedly.

Mordred could see it in his mind, the screaming passengers, the carriage hurtling towards earth. He felt a grin stretch his face, wide and sharp and eager. “That sounds  _ awesome! _ I have to go on one!”

“I’ll take you,” she said, “and we’ll go on all of them together.”

“Multiple times.” Mordred stated.

“Multiple times,” Irisviel confirmed.

“I can’t wait!” 

“Me neither!” She beamed back at him, “It will be nice to have someone to go on them with me!”

“Great, but for now,” he lifted his control, “rematch. This time  _ I’ll  _ be taking the cup!”

“In your dreams Mordred.” They returned to their game, Irisviel with a look of delighted concentration on her face, Mordred with a wild grin and narrowed eyes. For a while they were silent, occasionally grunting or cursing, mostly courtesy of Mordred. Finally, Irisviel spoke, and the delight and excitement from earlier had ebbed into something more solemn. “Mordred?”

“Yeah?” She was in the lead again, he wasn’t going to let her stay there.

“About Artoria’s birthday,” she hesitated, then laughed, “this is going to sound really silly, but I don’t know what to get her.”

He faltered in surprise, cars passed his own on the screen. “And you’re asking  _ me _ ?”

“Well,” she smiled slightly, “yes.”

“Hell if I know,” he frowned, “But . . . I’m sure she’ll love whatever you get her.” After all, Father loved her. He tried to keep the bitterness from rising at the thought, and managed to succeed this time.  _ Yes _ , Father loved Irisviel. Yes, Father hadn’t acknowledged Mordred. But with this morning’s revelations, with this morning’s resolutions, it was harder to be angry. Because he was hopeful.

It felt  _ weird  _ to be hopeful after all this time hating.

“I know that,” she said, sighing, “but it still doesn’t help. She deserves a good gift, a perfect gift, and I want to make sure it’s something she wants. It’s just so hard to get her to admit to wanting something.”

“Sometimes,” Mordred said, “you don’t know what you want until you have it.” Or don’t. He scowled at the tv, smashed a couple more buttons, watching his car lunging forwards. He was tied with her now, he would pull through. “So I wouldn’t worry about it. Something will come to you.”

She laughed. “Of course you would say that,” she shook her head, nudged a few buttons, took the lead again. “Are you coming?”

“To the meeting? Yeah.”

“No, to the party.”

And he froze, breath stuttering in his throat. The party,  _ the party. _ He hadn’t even  _ considered  _ the party. Would he?  _ No _ , he couldn’t, if he saw Father - but he had to start  _ somewhere _ . “I might pop in for a bit, drop off my own gift.” The letter, he  _ needed  _ to write the letter. And he could give it to Father on his birthday. Or maybe not give it to him, but something.

“Mordred,” there was something soft in her voice, and he turned to look at her. Her eyes were gentle, concerned, and it made him squirm. “You are welcome to stay for longer if you want. No one’s going to force you to leave.” She smiled, “Lily would be glad to have you there, and it’s her birthday too.”

Of fuck it  _ was _ , wasn’t it?  _ And  _ Salter’s birthday.  _ And  _ The Lion King’s birthday. He could forget about Salter and the Lion King, but Lily? He had to get her a gift, something that wasn’t an apology letter. She had  _ accepted  _ him, after all. What did she like? Chess, or maybe that was just something to do.  _ Fuck _ . “Okay, okay, I’ll be there.”

She smiled, “That’s good to hear, but if you feel uncomfortable, you’re welcome to leave. No ones going to judge. But I will if you fall in place another time.”

His eyes widened, his head jerked around to stare at the screen. Sixteenth place. “HOW?! ARGH! I  _ will  _ win this!” He returned to the game, mashing buttons as fast as possible, allowing it to distract him from the nervousness that was trying to cling to his mind.

They ended up playing to dinner, and during dinner he found himself eating with Fran, glad for her peaceful aura. Today had been full of shit,  _ crazy _ , tiring shit, and it was nice to just be able to sit and relax and eat while Fran read her book and smiled when their eyes met. After dinner, life resumed his normal pace, with Beowulf and the cleaners, but he’d managed to get the gist of that, and it was almost  _ horrifying  _ to see the amount of damage that was dealt to Chaldea on a daily basis. He was starting to agree with Beowulf that, while damage dealt during sparring was one thing, the damage that was occasionally dealt by the Chaos Crew and other chaos makers was quite another.

But his day, as much as he wished it too, didn’t end there.

It ended in the room he’d decided to dub Chiron’s office.

He entered carefully, pushing the door open slowly so it wouldn’t squeak. He took his time to pick the most comfortable chair, dragging a desk in front of it and sitting down, propping his feet up. Chiron was in, messing with papers, pencil held loosely in his grip, glasses perched on his nose. “What do you even  _ do  _ here?” Mordred interjected into the silence, voice almost too loud, too violent for the words

Chiron glanced at him. “It varies from day to day, currently I’m figuring out a training regimen for a talented student of Achilles. Of course I told him to find the answer himself, but he’ll come to make sure what he got is right.” He smiled faintly.

Mordred grinned, “Talented student, huh?”

“Yes, apparently because, and I quote ‘if I see another one of his bad punches I will burst into tears, teacher’.”

“ _ Hey _ ,” Mordred yelped, “I’m not that bad.”

“You were pretty bad,” Chiron said, “but it’s good that you’re learning. And it’s good that Achilles is teaching. Now, what are you here for Mordred?”

Mordred sucked in a deep breath, he  _ couldn’t  _ put it off, he had to do it  _ now _ , because if he  _ didn’t  _ then he  _ wouldn’t  _ do it at all. He was Mordred Pendragon and he was  _ fearless _ . He was Mordred Pendragon and he was  _ strong _ . “I -” the words stuck in his throat, he pushed them out, “I want to write a letter to Father. Like you said was an option. But I don’t know  _ how _ .” 

“And you want me to help you?”

_ “Yes.”  _ It was dragged out of him, and he slumped at the admission. He needed help with this. He knew fighting, he knew anger, but . . . fixing things? Not so much. “I need,” he winced, “help.”

Chiron messed with his papers, then pulled a few out of the stack and stood, walking over to set them and his pencil in front of Mordred. He grabbed a chair, moved it beside the Saber’s, and said softly. “You’re not going to get it right at the first try. This isn’t going to be one of those things that you understand immediately. So, first, don’t write what you want to tell her, write what you feel. And we’ll work from there.” His voice was gentle, filled with encouragement, and something in Mordred tightened. 

Encouragement,  _ again _ . 

He was  _ almost  _ getting used to how it felt to be encouraged and he wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Mordred swung his feet off the table, scooted forwards a bit, and picked up the pencil, staring at it. It was a mechanical pencil, all plastic and rubber and metal, so different from the quills Morgana would force into his hand, splattering ink onto the parchment. He pressed it against the blank sheet of lined paper, watched the graphite mark the whiteness, and after a few seconds, began to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The IshtarCup missed the perfect opportunity for a Mordred and Irisviel team up and honestly we were robbed. WE COULD HAVE HAD IT ALL.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A summary of the longest chapter I’ve ever written: A misty city, Food Wars III, birthday gifts, my limited chess knowledge, the sound of Mordred’s plans going out the window, the saint of sparring, someone get the knights some therapy PLEASE, the Teenaged Terror’s have begun to form, and a holy city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off I would like to say thank you for all your comments and kudos! You guys are wonderful! Second off, you might have noticed that this thing is scheduled for 16 chapters instead of 15, but that's fine because you guys are getting a *jazz hands* surprise double post! Because otherwise this would be a whopping 16k chapter. The summery though, covers both chapters. Hope you all enjoy and have a wonderful day!
> 
> As always, potential triggers, so be safe please!

_ The mana swirls restlessly in the air, shifting, pulling, forming. Bones. Then muscle. Then skin. Then clothes. Then armor, heavy and imposing, in silver and red. Mordred opens his eyes, ready to ask the customary question, but there is no one there to receive it. He is met with nothing but fog, and the looming shapes that might have been buildings, barely discernible through the mists. The stone beneath his feet is cracked, worn smooth in some places, and the buildings he can see are run down, paint peeling, shutters closed. The whole place reeks of smoke and oil, of piss and dung, of metal and death. But he knows it, for all that it has changed. _

_ This is London. _

_ Brittan. _

_ England. _

_ His home. _

_ His helmet deconstructs, and he takes a deep breath. The fog hits his tongue, it doesn’t taste of wet air, but of smoke and burnt things, harsh against his throat, wrong as it entered his lungs. The correct word surfaces from the Grail’s knowledge. Not fog, not mist, smog.  _

_ Somewhere, a light flickers into life, diffusing in the smog, then flickers out again. A street lamp maybe, on its last legs. It is enough to push him into action. Clarent is in his hands in a second, and he scans the ground quickly. There is no chalk, no silver, no blood, no token from his past, just as there is no mage with command seals on their hand. He is alone, with his instincts screaming in his mind, with no Master and no summoning circle. _

_ Something moves, the smog shifts, and he twists, a blade skittering against his chest plate, lightning bursting from his armor to send him flying away from the attack. Something chases him, keeps up with him, knives flashing as he bats them away with his blade and gauntlet. The something is child sized, with a flapping, ragged cloak, amber eyes glowing faintly through the smog. The face is familiar, young, scarred, as if he has seen it in a dream before, but despite their appearance, this person is dangerous, he can feel it in his bones. Their knife impacts against Clarent, the other heads for his neck, his helm clicks into place automatically, his hand snags their wrist, tossing them off of him. He lifts Clarent, his mana pulsing across the blade, lightning jumping off of it, arching through the air, burning the smog away. For the briefest moment, the street is clear, and his opponent is completely visible. A girl, glimpses of scarred skin visible beneath her ragged cloak. She snarls wordlessly at him, eyes flashing, then she’s gone, and the tingle at the back of his neck is gone with her. Safe, for now. _

_ Someone yells, a wordless sound of terror, and Mordred’s head jerks towards the sound. He is moving before he thinks, a blazing red light barreling through the streets, clearing a path through the smog. Soon, he sees them, five human shaped things with gears and wires, surrounding a man who has fallen to the ground. He throws himself forwards, his sabaton’s impact the chest of one, and it goes flying backwards, crashing against the street, bouncing, rolling, coming to a stop in a tangled mess of limbs. Mordred hits the ground, already twisting, blade a shining arc, bisecting another of the automatons. The last three turn from their victim, lunge to attack, spinning, arms battering against his armor. Clarent lops off one of the heads, a chest cavity is caved in by a punch, the third is taken down when the civilian drives a knife through its neck.  _

_ Mordred steps back, allowing his helmet to deconstruct, panting into the smog. He isn’t hurt, of course he isn’t, as if weaklings like these could have a chance of hurting him, but he is confused and annoyed and rapidly becoming pissed off. “Hey!” He snaps, and the civilian jumps, “Yeah, you. What the hell is going on here?” _

_ The civilian sheaths his knife, adjusts his glasses, and glances at Mordred. “I - this isn’t a good place to talk. But, thank you for your help. My home isn’t far from here, and the mists don't enter buildings. If you would?” _

_ Mordred snarls wordlessly, glaring around at the shuttered buildings and the empty streets. This man is an idiot for walking around in a place that obviously isn’t safe for humans, with nothing but a knife to defend him. A stupid, weak, idiot. But Mordred has no Master, and he is utterly lost and he needs someone to tell him what’s going on. “I’m Mordred,” he spits out, and the man’s eyes widen slightly, “and you are?” _

_ “Ah, Henry Jekyll. I would say it is a pleasure to meet you, but the situation isn’t pleasurable.” He smiles faintly, “This way, if you please.” He starts to walk through the smog, and Mordred has no choice but to follow. _

_ The Grail gives him knowledge over the course of the next week or so. The world has been destroyed. There is a Grail here somewhere, and that is what summoned him. This is a Singularity. He is in London. There is a place called Chaldea. It survived the destruction of the world. Humanity's last Master is travelling through time to save it. _

_ And Mordred Pendragon, the destroyer of Camelot, is the only one who can save the people of London, because London is currently hell for the weak and the mortal. Anyone who steps outside of their homes dies, if not by the automatons, then by the creepy child with the knives. They are like lambs to the slaughter and it is Mordred’s job to protect them. Because he is, despite it all, a knight bound by the code of chivalry, and he will not allow innocents to suffer. Because he is, or will one day be, a king, and kings protect their subjects. The good kings protect their subjects. So that is what he does. _

_ Because he will be a good king. _

_ The Master comes, and she is not what he expects. She is shit in battle, has to rely on Mash and that ass Galahad’s shield to protect herself, but she comes with four singularities under her belt and responsibility laying heavy on her shoulders like a cloak. She tells a tale of the burning city of Fuyuki. She speaks of Orleans and the Saint and the Saint’s vengeful other self. She weaves a story of a Roman Empire and its young emperor. She recounts a nautical voyage across Oceanus, of pirates both old and new. She is so very human, and so very fragile, but she has lost everything and pushes through despite it all. _

_ It is awe inspiring, and even more so, terrifying in it’s own way, because she does not show the cracks she must hold.  _

_ She treats Mordred with respect, same as the Servants that came with her. She speaks to everyone in the quiet moments, but is silent at important parts, soaking in the knowledge before speaking her mind. Her battle plans are not flawless, but they are experienced, and she is quick to adapt when things don’t go her way. She is utterly and completely 100% human, and Mordred cannot hate her for it. In fact, he is quite sure she is one of the few he would be proud to call Master.  _

_ They find her, Frankenstein’s Monster, in her father’s workshop. She is not what Mordred expects, gentler, softer, with a calm aura despite her grunts. She can barely speak, proper words tire her out too much, but it doesn’t matter, Mordred understands her anyway, because they are both the same. Not truly human. It is why Mash can understand her too. She likes books, her movements are hesitant, and Mordred can’t help but want to protect her. She seems so fragile, as if she would shatter at any moment, though no doubt she could keep herself safe if needed. But he doesn’t want her to have to do that. He is a knight, it is his duty to protect, so he swears to protect her. Perhaps it is because, although he knows how her story goes, right now she believes if she learns enough, figures out what she’s missing, her father will stop running, stop treating her like a monster. And Mordred understands that desperation, understands that push, and he knows that her story will end in anger and death like his did. He does not want that for her, does not want her small smile to fade. _

_ Her name is Fran, and like the child in the mists, her face is familiar, as if from a dream. _

_ It is his father but not his father. The Father-that-is-not-Father comes from the sky, summoned from the mists, in black armor, layered like scales, a dragon helmet, and a nightmare horse. When he removes his helmet, his face is different, older, the color leached from his skin, his hair a pale shade of yellow that just looks sick, a crown of twisted black metal on his head. He wields  _ _ Rhongomyniad in his grip, but it is not the Rhongomyniad Mordred knows, glowing bright with a holy light. No - it is darker, twisted, with red spines coming out of the black metal.  _

_ He is Arthur Pendragon, King of Storms, Leader of the Wild Hunt.  _

_ Not the Father Mordred remembers. _

_ Something twisted, the darkness within revealed by the Grail, tainted by Madness Enhancement, and Mordred does not care to look further. He has sworn to protect this London, and he will do it. Even if it is from Father. _

_ So he does. _

_ The enemy's name is Solomon. His hair is white as snow, threaded through with rubies. His skin is warm brown, black tattoos crawling up his arms. His teeth are sharp and jagged, the type that could bite through flesh easily. His clothes are extravagant, blacks and whites and reds, and he is dripping with gold jewelry, so that each movement catches the light. But his eyes are the worst. The sclera is black, his pupils red, his iris an even deeper color.  _

_ Demon’s eyes. _

_ Mordred brands the face into his mind, so he will remember it the next time he sees him.  _

_ Jekyll is safe. Fran is safe. It is just Gudako and Mash and the Servants that have joined them facing Solomon now. They speak, Mordred doesn’t really pay attention except for key moments, he is too focused on his building anger, cresting in his mind, burning through his veins. His instincts are screaming at him to run, to flee, that the Caster before him is too powerful to take on, but Mordred does not listen to them either. He is Mordred Pendragon and he is fearless. He is Mordred Pendragon and he is strong. He is Mordred Pendragon and he will keep London safe.  _

_ Solomon waves his hand, as if they are nothing to him. There is a burst of energy, an attack like nothing Mordred has ever felt before, and suddenly everyone has fallen, smoking, fading, disappearing into golden motes. But Mordred does not. The blow from  _ _ Rhongomyniad felt worse. Father’s rejection felt worse. Solomon does not like the fact he can still stand after such power, focuses on him, and he is saved by Andersen when the wave of energy is sent his way, but somehow, it still hurts. It doesn’t matter, he has been through worse. He is Mordred Pendragon, and he will not let Solomon win. But that doesn’t matter either, the ass leaves without fighting, and Mordred is left seething that he didn’t get the chance to bash the asshole’s face in, to see his blood fly through the air. He deserves it, that and more.  _

_ The Singularity begins to rewrite itself back into history, Mordred begins to fade, and he hates it. Because he doesn’t want to go, because he wants to join Gudako on her quest, wants to help her save the world and defeat the King of Magic But he says his goodbyes, the words he needs to say, because he can see it in Gudako’s face, the uncertainty lingering in her eyes, and he hates it. Hates the fact that the cracks are beginning to show. _

_ “There’s a limit of a Heroic Spirit, and a Servant. In every era, the ones who build things . . . are always people living on the cutting edge of the future.” He hesitates, unsure of where he’s going, but he knows he needs to clear the look in Gudako’s eyes. Perhaps it is his instincts, perhaps because he knows what doubt does to a person, but he needs to clear it, to get it out of her mind. _

_ “. . . Mordred,” she says, and for once the cracks show clear as day. Despair, written across her face. There then tucked away again. Pain. So much pain. More than any human should be able to bear.  _

_ “Yeah. That's why you're going to get there, Gudako. You'll reach the place we can't go. You'll cross over the seven Grails and reach the end of time. And then you'll corner that bastard Grand Caster. It's something only you can do.” _

_ “ . . . Mordred,” and this time it’s Mash that says it, and he wants to yell about their weird fascination with his name, because he knows his name is Mordred goddamnit! But now is not the time. And he knows what they’re trying to say. _

_ But he is Mordred Pendragon, and he doesn’t do soppy. He scowls at her, setting Clarent on his shoulder. “Don't make that face, Mash. I don't like that Shield Bastard, but you're different. Someday we'll meet again. When that happens, I'll help you.” He grins at them, all teeth and challenge, because it is a challenge, isn’t it? The biggest battle, the excitement stirring in his blood. “Bye, Gudako. Even someone like me was able to save London. So with a little bit of work, you'll be able to save the world.” Then he is gone, turning into golden motes, disappearing in the air.  _

_ And in his final moments, he is incredibly proud. Not just of Mash and how she has grown. Not just of Gudako and how she will save the world. But proud of himself as well. For keeping London safe, despite it all. _

Mordred pushed open the door to the simulation room softly, peeking inside. Kotarou was already there, flashing through a battle. He fought nagas, the snake ladies, with their too pale skin and stringy hair and long scaled tales. He ducked and dodged their attacks, knives flashing through the air as he moved. Mordred summoned his armor and joined him, Clarent hacking through flesh, fake blood spraying from each strike. Soon they were alone, the illusion of the damp cave flickering out of existence.  **“Simulation Complete~”**

Mordred tapped Clarent against the ground, thinking. He could still taste the wet air of London, feel the lingering pain from Solomon’s attack. “Hey, Kotarou, were you in London?”

“Ah . . . I’ve been with Gudao since the beginning.” Kotarou moved over to the panel, began to mess with it, to pull up another battlefield.

“Never saw you.”

He smiled, small and faint, perhaps a bit proud, “That is my job.”

“One more Singularity, huh.” He tilted his head back, stared at the ceiling. “And then we’ll be a threat worth paying attention to.” He thought of Solomon, back lit by that burning, purple red light. The black and red eyes, the skin marked with tattoo’s, the hair woven with rubies. His hand tightened on Clarent’s grip, and he scowled, brows furrowing. “One more singularity, and then we’ll be able to give that  _ bastard  _ the ass kicking he deserves.”

Kotarou dipped his head in acknowledgement, and it was his business voice when he spoke next. “Gudao can do it. If anyone can, he can. But, as much as I believe in our Master, this is war. Things go wrong, things happen. I think, in the end, all we can do is give him all the support we can. Solomon is stronger than any one Heroic Spirit, but together, together we have a chance at stopping him.”

Mordred stared at him, “You’ve been putting a lot of thought into that.”

Kotarou ducked his head. “Like I said, I’ve been here since the beginning. I know that Chaldea’s true power does not lie with the Heroic Spirits he summons, but the bonds he creates on his journeys.”

Mordred thought about the smog covered streets, the dark buildings, the enemies and the allies, and about the fragile human who was doing so much for humanity, carrying such a heavy burden on her shoulders. “Yeah, you might just be right.”

They met for the party plans in Office 12, larger than the other two he’d been in. This one had a long table with chairs at the sides, a computer desk in the corner, and a projector hanging from the ceiling. Bedivere was already there, sitting at the computer desk, pulling up a word document, in a silver shirt that read in big black letters,  TRUST ME I’M A MR. NICE GUY, because  _ yes _ , it was funny shirt day again. They were going to be talking about Father’s and Lily’s birthday on funny shirt day. Mordred wasn’t sure if that made things  _ better  _ or  _ worse _ . Mordred pushed open the door, and Bedivere looked up, a smile flickering across his lips. “Ah, Sir Mordred, Diarmuid, Cu, Achilles, good morning.”

“Mornin’,” Mordred said, waving a hand and grabbing a chair, hopping into it. It was, to his delight, a rolly chair. Immediately, he started spinning. “You need some help with that? Achilles and Diarmuid are  _ really  _ good with technology.”

“Achilles especially,” Diarmuid said, leaning against the wall.

“HEY!” Achilles protested, finding his own chair, “We got it working!”

“Eventually,” Cu added cheerfully, hopping onto the table.

Achilles sputtered, “As if you can say anything! All you did was eat cookies!”

“And they were very good cookies,” Cu agreed.

“I didn’t get any!”

“ _ Maybe _ you should have brought it up faster,” Mordred suggested, the world a blur around him as he spun.

“Well, if Diarmuid hadn’t snatched the last cookies-”

“Don’t bring me into this,” Diarmuid said, raising his hands, “You should have been faster.”

Mordred caught sight of Bedivere’s face as he spun. It was just a flash, but it was enough to see the exhaustion in his blue-green eyes and the small amused smile on his lips. Oh yes, for the most prim and proper Knight of the Round Table beside Father, the normal antics of the Chaos Crew must be both captivating and horrifying to watch. Mordred cracked a grin as he imagined how this meeting would dissolve. They might not get anything done today.

_ No _ , they would, Mordred would make sure of that. He wanted Father to be  _ happy _ , and this was one way to do that. He wanted to _ fix things _ , and this was one step on that path. He  _ would not _ let them get distracted. He slowed his spinning to a halt, ready to ask a question, when the door opened again, and Lancelot entered the room, in a dark purple shirt with golden letters that read I FLY PLANES . . . SCARY ISN’T IT? Their eyes met, and Mordred froze, breath stuttering in his throat. Lancelot glared at him, then, coldly, walked past him and Achilles to take a seat near Bedivere’s computer desk. “Good Morning.”

“Good Morning,” it was echoed around the room, and Mordred unclenched his jaw enough to say ‘good morning’ as well.

For a second, silence reigned, heavy, strangling, then Lancelot’s eyes flickered to Mordred, “Sir Mordred,” his jaw worked, “Lily told me about your chess games.”

_ “And?” _ The word came out sharper than he meant it too, but he refused to take it back.

“You shouldn’t swear in front of our young king.” He said, stiffly, but something in the room eased. An understanding that they wouldn’t be taking out old grievances and hanging them up to dry right now.

Mordred snorted and started spinning in his chair again. “If she doesn’t hear it from me, she’s going to hear it from someone else. Probably already has.”

“He has a point, Sir Lancelot,” Bedivere added, “There are a plethora of swearers around Chaldea. Sir Mordred is hardly the worst of them.”

“Yeah,” Cu butted in, cheerful as ever, “I mean, have you heard Jalter speak? It’s insane. And Salter isn’t much better, you know. Also,” he scratched his head, “isn’t like, Lily sixteenish? Around that age? She’s definitely heard people cussing before.”

“I do understand a bit about what Sir Lancelot is saying,” Diarmuid said, just a bit stiffly, “but Mordred is not the type to hold in his swearing for anyone.”

“Thanks guys,” Mordred grumbled, “I was doing  _ fine  _ defending myself.”

Achilles leaned back in his chair and stuck his feet on the table, “I have no clue what you guys are talking about, so I’m going to nap. Wake me up when something interesting happens.” And that effectively destroyed whatever tension remained in the room, clearing the way for Mordred to ask a vital question.

“What the  _ hell  _ does Lily even like? I’m  _ trying  _ to figure out a fucking birthday gift, but I have  _ no clue _ what to get her.” There was a brief pause as four sets of eyes stared at him, and he scowled back at them. “ _ What? _ I like Lily. She’s nice.” And she had accepted him, had given him hope that things could change, “I want to get her something.” A thank you gift, a birthday gift, it didn’t matter.  _ Something _ .

“Music,” Bedivere said softly, “She likes dancing.”

“And horses,” Lancelot added, with a small grin.

“Thanks,” Mordred said, “That’s  _ super  _ helpful.”

The door opened again, this time accompanied by the delightful smell of cookies. Cu jerked to attention, a grin splitting his face. “Emiya!”

“Don’t you dare,” Emiya said, holding the door open for Irisviel, “We literally saw each other three hours ago.”

Cu hopped of the table, waltzed over to Emiya’s side, “But that was three hours ago, Emiya~”

Mordred turned away from whatever disgusting display of affection was about to happen and pretended to gag as Irisviel sat beside him, setting a large platter of cookies on the table. “Good morning,” She said.

“Good morning,” was dutifully chorused again.

Mordred stared pointedly at the platter of cookies, and Irisviel laughed, “Yes, they’re fresh from the kitchens.”

“Awesome,” Mordred reached for one, a blur of lightning, the plate was gone. He spun in his seat, glared at Achilles, who now stood with the platter of cookies held high above his head. “What the  _ hell? _ Give ‘em here!”

“Should have been faster,” Achilles sang, sticking one in his mouth and making exaggerated ‘mhmm’ sounds. Mordred growled and leapt at him, his chair skidding across the floor, seat spinning widely. Achilles twisted out of the way, and Mordred went crashing into another chair, cursing violently. “Might need to grow a few inches too.” He commented, snatching another cookie, “By Zeus, these are good.”

Mordred pushed himself out of the wreckage of chairs, eyes focused on the platter of cookies. Only for someone else to pluck the platter out of Achilles’ hands and set it back on the table. Mordred’s head jerked around while Achilles made an affronted noise, just in time to see Lancelot take his seat. He, with a straight face, said, “We may have our differences, but the Knights of the Round always fight together. Even against cookie thieves.”

Diarmuid walked over, took at least ten, then walked back to his wall as if he hadn’t just committed mass cookie robbery. “Yes, Achilles,” he said, straight faced, “wouldn’t want to be a cookie thief.”

“You just stole ten!” Achilles protested, reaching out for the platter again.

Mordred jumped onto the table, grabbing the platter and skidding across to land on the other side. “Who’s too slow now!?” He shoved a couple into his mouth and sighed with happiness. Yes, he might have just had breakfast, but it was  _ cookies _ . Glorious, chocolate chip cookies, still warm from the ovens. Wonderful,  _ delightful _ , cookies.

“EHEM,” Irisviel cleared her throat, “as amusing as this is to watch, can we please begin this? I don’t want anything left to chance with this party. That means, Cu, that you have to stop accosting your fiancé now.”

“I’m not accosting him!” Cu yelped, twisting to stare wide eyed at Irisviel from where he’d had his arms looped around the Archer’s neck.

“We aren’t engaged.” Emiya said, with the blankest, most tired expression Mordred had ever seen.

Bedivere sighed, rubbing his forehead, “Sir Mordred, please put the cookies back onto the table. Now, if everyone would look at the screen, we have quite a few things to cover. We’ll have to do it quickly though, some of us have limited attention spans.” If that last bit was directed at anyone in particular, Bedivere didn’t look at them.

Oh yes, focus. No distractions. He  _ had  _ to make sure this was the best birthday party ever. Mordred set the cookie platter back onto the table, then passed a couple to Lancelot. ‘Truce?’ he mouthed, and after a second, the other knight nodded agreement. Mordred grabbed a chair, spun it around, and sat down, staring at the gathering. Diarmuid was still leaning against his wall, chewing on his stolen cookies contentedly. Emiya had taken a seat, and Cu had plopped down on his lap with a grin, and although Emiya looked like he was second’s from dumping the Lancer off, his lips were twitching in amusement. Irisviel sat prim and proper in her seat, hands folded in her lap, eyes focused on the screen. Achilles had stuck his feet onto the table again, leaning back, eyes closed as he listened. Bedivere spoke from behind the computer desk, the screen’s light casting eerie shadows on his face, his fingers tapping against the keyboard. Lancelot leaned forwards slightly, elbows on the table and arms crossed before him, brows furrowed, a look of concentration on his face.

And Mordred couldn’t help but grin at the sight of them all there, prepping this surprise for their King and her younger self. It was truly  _ something _ , and Mordred couldn’t help but be  _ proud  _ to be a part of it. So he tuned into the conversation, with a burning heart and hope once again beating against his ribcage, like a bird ready to fly towards freedom.

“So,” Mordred said, as soon as he’d had enough food to take the edge off of his insatiable hunger, “I think that went well.”

“Nobody died, so I’m counting it as a win.” Achilles said.

“Shut up,” Cu grinned cheerfully, flicking a piece of food at the Rider’s face, “You didn’t even participate.”

“I was there for moral support,” Achilles protested, whipping the bit of broccoli off his cheek with a scowl.

“Some moral support you were,” Diarmuid said wryly, “all you did was sleep and eat cookies.”

“Well you stole cookies too!” Achilles argued.

“The point that I was  _ trying  _ to make,” Mordred interjected before they could spiral into hilarious disaster, “is that we now have a plan, we just need supplies, and gifts.”

“I can talk to the clothing department, see what I can find. I should also talk to Da Vinci, and Romani.” Diarmuid stated, tapping the table thoughtfully, “Actually, we should probably let me handle all the human interaction.”

“Excuse me!” Cu yelped, “I’m friendly, people like me, why can’t I talk to people?”

“Because if you go to the clothing department you will be distracted by every horrible Hawaiian shirt?” Achilles suggested.

“Oi! Listen here, Carrot Top-”

“HEY! I thought we dropped that -”

Mordred laughed and returned to his meal. Yes, things were definitely looking up, he just had a  _ couple  _ of hurdles to cross. The biggest one, besides Father’s letter, being Lily’s birthday gift.

After training with Achilles, Mordred blasted through Chaldea’s halls towards the simulation room. Kotarou had rotation today, but he should have been back by now, and the simulation room was the only place he knew for certain the small Assassin frequented with any regularity. Mordred skidded to a halt outside the simulation room’s doors, opened them up, peered inside. To his surprise, there was no Kotarou, simply an empty room. Well  _ shit _ . Plan B then,  _ “Hey, Kotarou, where are you?” _

_ “Ah!”  _ A startled noise, as if the ninja hadn’t expected to be contacted in such a way,  _ “ah . . . I’m in my room . . . I . . . ah . . . hai.”  _

Mordred rolled his eyes at Kotarou’s awkwardness, then barreled forwards,  _ “Look, I need help with something. Do you know of any good gifts for a person who likes music?” _

_ “Ah,”  _ a long pause, then,  _ “hai, a recording, or a record player. A radio, but that won’t work because that would require the outside world,”  _ he’d slipped into business mode, each word clipped and certain,  _ “An mp3 player, possibly. You could ask Da Vinci, no doubt she would have something laying around her workroom. Or she could build something for you.” _ _   
_ _ “But would she be able to build it in three days? That is including today.” _

_ “Ah, probably not,”  _ Kotarou admitted.

Mordred rocked back on his heels and groaned loudly.  _ “Do you have anything you mind parting with that I could use?”  _ If anyone did, it would be Kotarou. They guy carried around TNT on the off chance he might need it for fucks sake.

_ “ _ _ Ah . . . I . . . maybe? You can come look if you want.” _

_ “Okay, where’s your room?” _

_ “Ah . . . stay there and I’ll come get you.” _

_ “Fine.” _ Mordred exited the simulation room, leaned against the wall outside, shoved his hands into his pockets, and consigned himself to the wait.

“Holy shit,” Mordred said softly as he entered Kotarou’s room. It was so unlike his own, like entering a completely different world. A tatami mat had been laid across the floor, and a kotatsu dominated the middle of the room, a bowl of oranges sitting on the polished wood. There was a futon in the corner, placed there as if an afterthought, blankets neat and wrinkle free. There was a plant by the corner of the room, Mordred wasn’t sure what type it was, besides the fact that it was tall and slim and it’s leaves were green. Storage boxes lined the walls, and on the walls was the biggest weapons collection Mordred had ever seen. Knives, swords, a couple of shields, and . . .  _ “Holy shit,” _ he said again, “Is  _ that  _ a  _ gun? _ ”

“Ah,” Kotarou mumbled, tugging awkwardly at his hair as if to hide the blush that was rapidly rising on his cheeks. “Hai.”

Mordred stared at the room, then back at the ninja and the shirt that read IF YOU CAN READ THIS MY INVISIBILITY CLOAK ISN’T WORKING, then back at the room, then back at Kotarou. “Can I borrow it?”

“No.” Kotarou said, immediately.

“Can I -”

“No.”

“You haven’t even heard what I was going to say!” Mordred protested.

A vague look of annoyance flitted over the features that weren’t hidden by his mop of hair, and when he spoke, there was the faintest trace of warning running through the words. “No one, Mordred, touches my weapons collection but me,” then that trace of warning, that underlying threat, was gone as if it had never been, “Ah . . . make sure to take off your shoes before going in.”

“Yeah, okay,” Mordred said numbly, sitting down on the ground so he could tug off his boots. He set them on the shoe rack that stood just inside the entrance and stepped inside. “Are you  _ sure  _ that you’re okay with me taking something?”

Kotarou shrugged, toed off his own shoes, then closed the door behind him as he stepped inside, “Ah . . . hai. I’m not using most of it, and Da Vinci gave them back to me when she was done with them.” He removed the lid of one of the storage containers, revealing a mess of wires and hardware. Mordred glanced at it briefly before the Assassin picked the container up and moved it to the kotatsu. He sat down, under the blanket, and gestured at the container. “Shall we begin?”

Mordred walked over and sat, sticking his legs under the blanket. It was warmer than he expected, a pleasant heat that made him feel sleepy. Perhaps that was why Kotarou had it, to help him on the nights that he didn’t go to the sparring room. “You sure there’s something in there that will work?”

Kotarou shrugged, then nodded in the direction of the rest of the storage containers. “If not in here, then in one of those.”

Mordred snorted, “ _ Damn _ . All this because it might come in handy?”

“Well, no,” Kotarou admitted, squirming, “ah . . . some because I was curious, and . . . ah . . . some because Da Vinci and some of the others wanted examples of modern tech.”

Mordred glanced around again, at the multiple storage boxes and at the wall full of gleaming weapons. “ _ Sheesh _ . Well then, I came to the right person. Let’s get this shit started.” He turned to the open container, and together, they began to pull things out.

Mordred slipped out of his own room, glancing down the hallways to make sure nobody was watching. In the end, it had taken him and Kotarou two hours to find something that worked as a gift, and now, Mordred was on his way to find Fran.  _ Shit _ . Fran. Tomorrow would be her one week anniversary, he’d have to figure out something for her as well. What did she like? Flowers, books, he  _ couldn’t  _ just head over to Kotarou and beg for another gift. He blew out a harsh breath, closed his door fully, started down the hall to find Cu and maybe Emiya to see if he could wrangle a cake out of them. Then again, perhaps he could go directly to the kitchens -

“Mordred! There you are!”

Mordred jumped at the lighter, cheerier version of Father’s voice. Thank god he’d just hidden, or at least removed from view, her gift. He turned around to see Lily in a white shirt that read FREE HUGS* *OFFER INCLUDES BEAR HUGS, GROUP HUGS, TREE HUGS, POUND HUGS, AWKWARDLY LONG HUGS, CUDDLING AND SPOONING. SUBJECT TO ALL APPLICABLE TAXES. MAY NOT BE COMBINED WITH ANY OTHER OFFERS. SHIPPING & HANDLING NOT INCLUDED **,** waving ecstatically. He waved back. “Hey Lily, you needed me for something?”

“Yep,” She bounced over to his side, beaming widely, “I wanted to know if you wanted to play chess again.”

He rubbed his hair awkwardly, “You must really like that game.”

“I’m trying to get good enough to beat Lancelot,” she admitted, “Hey! Is that your room? Can I see please?”   


_ NO!” _ Mordred yelled, and she recoiled. He winced, shit, he hadn’t meant to yell that, but her gift was sitting on his table, in plain view the minute he opened the door. “Sorry, it’s just that it’s a mess and not fit for other people to see it. Much less the future King of Britain.” He gave an awkward grin, and she blinked at him, before smiling brightly.

“It’s okay! Mine gets pretty messy too, occasionally. We’ll leave the tour of your room for another day!”

Mordred sighed, safe. “Hey, I’m good for chess, but can we stop by the kitchens first? I have a favor to ask of them.”

Lily nodded, “Sure. We can do that!”

“Check,” Lily said, bent over the chess board, moving her pawn, and Mordred could feel his eyebrow twitch. He wasn’t great at chess, but then again, neither was Lilly, so the result was an hour of painstakingly made choices.

“Uh,” Mordred said, hand hovering over the board. Uncertain. He glanced at the pieces, tried to figure out something to do. If he moved this knight there, then - but no, it left his king open from that side, perhaps attack was the best option? Something was telling him no but he wasn’t sure if instincts counted when it wasn’t an actual fight. His hand moved, touched the top of a piece, then moved on, flitting across the board. He growled, low and long, “if I flip the board I won’t have to deal with this shit.”

“If you flip the board we’ll have to restart,” Lily said, eyes narrowed as she watched the battlefield. “Please don’t, it took too long to get here.” 

Mordred scowled, “You should go play with someone who's actually good at this shit, like Sir Lancelot or Sir Bedivere.”

“I do,” she made a face, “they’re wonderful, but they always go easy on me.” She sighed, “at least you don’t do that.”

Mordred groaned, “That doesn't mean  _ shit _ .” Fuck it, attack it was. He grabbed a piece, moved it, took her knight. He stared at the board, “Oh fuck! Check!”

“No way!” She gasped, staring down at the board as if it could somehow change the result. It couldn’t. They were both hovering delicately at check. “Ahh,” she said, a pained sound as she slumped against the table, “I think I hate this game,” she said mournfully.

He stared at the board, still disbelieving of his luck. “I know I do.” Then his instincts, which had been humming in the back of his mind, started screaming, and he jerked his head up, just in time to see the door to the entertainment room open, revealing . . .

Father.

And Mordred  _ froze _ .

She stood there, in a loose black skirt and a blue shirt that read in looped gold letters, LIKE MOST WEBSITES, I USE COOKIES TO IMPROVE MY PERFORMANCE. Her face, it wasn’t closed off, nor was it shadowed, but still hard to read. Her clear blue-green eyes danced over the scene, the chess game, Lily, Mordred. She stepped fully inside, hands running over her skirt in a way that might have signified nerves if she’d been anyone else. “Lily, Sir Mordred, I hope that I have not disturbed you.”

Lily shot up, “No, you haven’t!” She said cheerfully, far away as if from underwater. Father had said his name, no looking away this time, had  _ actually  _ said his name. And Mordred  _ didn’t  _ know how to react, because the anger that had been trying to  _ build  _ in chest had  _ frozen  _ at the sound.

“That is good,” Father murmured, “I - if you may allow me too, Lily, may I borrow Sir Mordred for a few seconds? I - we need to talk.” Her eyes flicked over to Mordred again, blue-green, the same color as Mordred’s own.

_ No _ . This  _ couldn’t  _ be happening. He’d had a plan. He’d  _ had  _ a  _ plan _ ! And  _ now  _ here she was, standing there, asking for him! Oh god, he couldn’t - he  _ couldn’t  _ think,  _ couldn’t  _ breath.

“Ah, yeah, you can.” Lily’s eyes, the same shade of blue-green, flicked between the two of them, and Mordred wondered desperately what she was thinking.  _ Couldn’t  _ she see that he was  _ drowning _ ?  _ Drowning  _ in  _ shock  _ and  _ rage  _ and  _ disbelief  _ and  _ confusion _ .

“Of course, Father,” he heard himself say, far away, robotic tones, and for the briefest of seconds, he thought Father actually winced before she lifted her chin. He stood, each motion feeling stilted, words he didn’t dare say trapped behind his teeth. “Where would you like to speak?”

Lily stood hurriedly, “You can speak here! I’ll - I’ll just leave you too alone for a bit!” She left, a blur of white and gold before Mordred could  _ break  _ and  _ beg  _ her to stay. The last time he’d been alone with Father,  Rhongomyniad had carved through his chest and out his back, and he had returned the killing blow with Clarent. Before that, Father had rejected him, and he had broken under the pain. And now . . .  _ now  _ . . .

His breath was coming quicker, flickering in the back of his throat. His blood rushed through his veins, his heart pumping loudly in his ears. For the briefest moment, Camlann flashed through his mind, the blood red skies, the hill of bodies and swords,  _ Father’s  _ face, shadowed. Why hadn’t she looked?  _ Why  _ hadn’t she  _ looked _ ? She was looking now. 

Father sat in Lily’s seat, the chess game separating them, if felt a lot longer than a foot or so, an  _ impenetrable  _ gulf of misdeeds and actions. She didn’t say anything, neither did Mordred, the silence straining between them, waiting for one of them to  _ break _ .  _ What  _ did she want? The last time . . . when he’d been sparring with Achilles . . . she’d turned away from him,  _ again _ . So  _ why  _ was she here? In front of him? Hands clasped tightly in her lap? He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again, words stuck in his throat, trapped behind his teeth, unable to break out. He closed his eyes, maybe it would help, it didn’t, she was still there, opened them again.

“Sir Mordred-”

“I-”

They paused, and Mordred wondered if  _ something somewhere  _ was balancing on a ledge, tipping one way then the other, unsure of which side to crack on. Would they walk away with a sense of understanding? Or would they walk away with more wounds drawn under their skin? “You go first.” He managed, harsh and strangled. 

She hesitated, then spoke slowly. “I heard about what you did in London, about who you faced. I wanted . . . I wanted to thank you for protecting England when I could not.”

_“Why?”_ And it was a rasped word, ragged and desperate. _Why_ had she turned away? _Why_ had she rejected him? Was he _not_ good enough? Why? _Why?_ _WHY?_ But he settled on something simple, for now, before the flood burst out, “ _Why_ weren’t you there?” He was the Knight of Treachery, the one who’d destroyed Camelot, but it had fallen to _him_ to protect London. Against _her_ , of all people.

She closed her eyes and sighed, “I was . . . detained. I had sustained major injuries in Oceanus, and Nightingale wanted to keep me off Rotation to make sure I fully recovered. And, Gudako was eager to move forwards.” Her eyes snapped open, resolve flaring in them, “I do not hate you, you know.”

_ “I know, _ ” and the words were spat from his lips. He sucked in a breath between his teeth, heard it whistle. He tried to reign in his anger, because he  _ would not  _ let it control him, but he would still say what he needed too. “But that’s pretty fucked up,  _ isn’t it _ , Father? I destroyed  _ everything  _ of yours, tore it down, left you with  _ nothing  _ but a hill of the dead who had looked to you to save them. You  _ should  _ hate me.” 

Something flickered across her face, something that might have been a bittersweet smile, there then gone. “Perhaps, but I do not blame you for what you did.” And Mordred froze, “I know, Sir Mordred, what drove the fall of Camelot, and for all your rage that day, it was not you. If I had been a better king, if I had -”

And Mordred’s control of his rage  _ shattered _ . He  _ surged  _ to his feet (he must have sat down though he didn’t remember doing so) hands  _ slamming  _ down onto the chessboard, flipping it, pieces flying through the air. The board crashed against the ground, pieces scattered across the floor. _ “A BETTER KING?!” _ He yelled in disbelief, words ripped from his throat, _ “YOUR FAULT?!”  _ He growled, harsh and angry. “How  _ dare  _ you try to take the blame for something that wasn’t your fault alone! If  _ Morgana  _ hadn’t been so obsessed with revenge, I would have never been created! If Sir  _ Tristan  _ hadn’t uttered those fucking words, there would have never been any doubt! If Sir  _ Lancelot  _ hadn’t fucked your wife, Sir Agraiven wouldn’t have brought it up to you! If Sir  _ Agraiven  _ hadn’t been so goddamned nosey, that would have never been a problem! If Sir  _ Gawain  _ hadn’t stopped Sir Lancelot from coming to Camlann, then I would have never gotten as far as I did! If  _ I  _ had  _ known  _ some  _ semblance  _ of self  _ control _ , if  _ I  _ had been able to  _ manage  _ my  _ anger  _ better, then Camelot  _ wouldn’t  _ have fallen! SURE, you weren’t fucking perfect like everyone believed! You  _ could have _ connected more! You  _ could have _ allowed other people to help you with your goddamned burdens! BUT YOU  _ WEREN’T  _ TO BLAME FOR THE FALL OF CAMELOT! WE  _ ALL  _ WERE!” The words bounced off the walls, echoing in the room, sharp and loud, the remnants of his anger still tangible in the air. He stood there, fists clenching and unclenching, sucking in harsh breaths, ignoring the ache of his throat. Father stared at him, wide eyed, shock written across her features, and Mordred couldn’t help but notice that she  _ was  _ looking  _ now _ . He worked his jaw, and said again, “We were  _ all  _ to blame for the fall of Camelot.  _ Don’t  _ you fucking dare try to take away our actions. You were a _ good king _ , and do you know  _ why? _ Because you put  _ everyone  _ in front of you first. If  _ we  _ had noticed sooner, if  _ we  _ had tried to help instead of imploding, if  _ we  _ had reached out instead of taking you for granted, then it might have been a completely different story. But we  _ didn’t _ . So  _ yeah _ , you could have relied on us more, trusted us more, but we could have done more from you. The fall of Camelot  _ wasn’t  _ the fault of one person alone. So  _ don’t  _ you  _ dare  _ try to take our accomplishments and mistakes from us, because they are ours.  _ Not. Yours _ .” Another harsh breath, he stepped back, rage beating against his insides, but he forced a deeper breath, digging into the pocket of his jacket, taking out the stress ball, squeezing it tight between his fingers. “If I had  _ accepted  _ your words, if I  _ hadn’t  _ let my rage control me, it might have been a different story,” he repeated again, softer, ragged. It might have been a different story if he’d taken a step back and looked at what he wanted versus what he thought he wanted. “ _ I _ destroyed Camelot.  _ We  _ all destroyed Camelot. You were the  _ only  _ fucking thing holding us together. Do you think anything would have been done otherwise? You were our shining light, as long as you were there,  _ nothing  _ could go wrong.  _ We  _ were at fault for not seeing the toll that took on you, just as you were at fault for not showing  _ us  _ that toll. So  _ don’t  _ you  _ dare  _ try to claim  _ our  _ mistakes  _ again _ .” He turned around, then ran out in a blaze of lightning, before she could open her mouth and speak, rage still boiling in his throat, burning in his chest.

Lily was waiting outside in the hall, she straightened, eyes wide. She’d heard it all, “Mordred, are you -”

_ “I’m fine,”  _ he hissed out, and he would be, at least, he would be eventually. “I’m sorry Lily, we’ll have to finish our game another time.” Then he was blasting down the hallways, a comet of red light, towards the sparring rooms.

He found Martha in one that was set up more like a gym then a sparring room. Chairs lined the walls, equipment was scattered around the room. She’d hung up a punching bag, was going at it with wrapped up fists, punches and kicks, each movement bleeding into the other. He entered the room, bursting through the door, skidding to a halt.  _ “Martha,” _ and his voice was still a rasp, he took a breath, tried again, “Martha, can we . . . can we spar?”

She held her kick, the top of her foot laying against the side of the punching bag, expressions flashing across her face before the saintly mask was brought up again. “I don’t fight for the sake of fighting, Mordred.”

“I know  _ that _ ,” he snapped, “I just need to -”  _ fight _ , do  _ something _ , get  _ rid  _ of the anger that was rushing through his veins. Father thought the fall of Camelot was her fault.  _ Father,  _ who hadn’t looked at him until she’d tried to take the blame for his mistakes.  _ Father _ , whose only true crime was being unable to express herself.  _ Father,  _ who -

Martha brought her foot down, “You need to punch it out.” She smiled, blue eyes flashing, “don’t tell anyone, but I understand.” She stepped away from the punching bag, gestured at it, “Go ahead, I’ll hold it for you. Extra wraps are on the table over there.”

“I don’t need them,” he grumbled, taking off his jacket, folding it, placing it on one of the chairs.

“Mordred.” She said, a warning note in her voice, and he sighed harshly and picked them up.

“ _ Fine _ . How the  _ hell  _ do I put them on?”

“Let me,” she walked over, began to wrap his fists. “Do you want to talk about whatever it is?”

“What,” he snorted, “confess to the priest?”

She grinned, “I’m a saint, not necessarily the same thing. But sure, if you have anything you need to confess.” She stepped away, “There we go, all ready to punch the living daylights out of the bag.”

He walked over, got into the stance Achilles had taught him, although he  _ ached  _ to go batshit insane and just take Clarent and  _ hack  _ the punching bag to pieces. Martha walked over to the other side, grabbed it, nodded to him. He began, punching hard, hearing the impact, feeling the sting on his knuckles. Achilles was right, a  _ horrifying  _ thought, punching straight instead of crooked really didn’t hurt as much. He punched again, harder, and Martha slid a few inches back, the chain holding the bag up creaking. “ _ Father _ ,” he growled out, because Martha had offered and the words were bubbling up in the back of his throat, pushing their way out. Because he needed to  _ vent  _ before he  _ blew up  _ again, “is a fucking  _ idiot _ .” Each word was punctuated by another punch, the thwack of fist against cloth an underlying rhythm to his speech. “I had a goddamned  _ plan _ ! I was going to do things  _ slowly _ ! I was going to fix things on my  _ own terms! _ Then she just appears out of  _ fucking  _ nowhere, asking to talk, and we don’t even  _ talk  _ about what  _ needs  _ to be talked about!  _ NO!  _ She just  _ fucking _ ,” hard, faster, flecks of lightning dancing across his arms. It was all he could do to hold the mana back,  _ “BLAMES HERSELF FOR EVERYTHING!” _

“That’s odd,” Martha grunted, straining with each punch he threw.

“You’re telling me!  _ Yeah _ , there were things that she could have done, but there were things the rest of us could have done too! It  _ wasn’t  _ her fault! IT WAS  _ ALL  _ OF OUR FAULTS AND SHE’S TRYING TO TAKE THE  _ BLAME _ !” His fist cracked against the bag, and this one hurt, pain jarring up his wrist towards his elbow. He cursed for a second, shook his arm, then fixed his stance and resumed his rhythm. “And it  _ pisses  _ me off! And you know, I  _ told  _ myself that when I spoke to her, I  _ wouldn’t  _ flip out, but I flipped out!”  _ How  _ would she ever accept him if he couldn’t control this rage? But she had blamed herself,  _ how  _ could he not be angry? “I  _ don’t  _ even get  _ why  _ she’d say that!”

“There are many possible reasons,” Martha said, muscles bulging as she held her ground, “I don’t know her, but I guess I can understand a bit. I’m a saint, saints act a certain way, despite their own individual personalities. Two people at war, who you are, and who you’re supposed to be. I expect that it is worse as king.”

“THEN SHE  _ SHOULD HAVE _ RELIED ON US!!!” Mordred yelled, his voice breaking, “That’s what we were there for.  _ None  _ of us really  _ cared  _ about  _ Camelot _ , we all cared about  _ her _ . If she’d  _ only  _ let us in, if we’d  _ only  _ done better,  _ none  _ of that would have happened.” His hands fell to his sides, he stood there, gasping for breath, chest heaving, rage disappearing, tears burning at the corner of his eyes. “She was a  _ good king _ , the  _ best  _ of  _ kings _ , and I  _ don’t  _ \- I  _ don’t  _ understand why she can’t see that.  _ Hell _ , if I,  _ me _ , the one who  _ tore down  _ her country, can see that, then how can’t she? Yes, she made mistakes, but so did I, so did  _ everyone  _ in the Round Table. We were  _ all  _ to blame.  _ How  _ can she try to take it from us?”

“Mordred,” Martha said, letting go of the punching bag. It swung softly between them, creaking on it’s chain. “How do you feel about Camlann?”

He scowled at her, but answered anyway. “I regret it. I regret that I let my rage take control of. I regret not figuring out what I wanted sooner. But even then, I destroyed a fucking country! I was  _ nine _ ! Yeah, I regret it, but that’s still fucking  _ awesome _ . It’s still fucking  _ impressive _ . And she just,” he growled, “tried to  _ take  _ the blame.”

“Did you let her?” Martha asked, crossing her arms and watching him.

“ _ No _ .” Mordred growled, “ _ Of course _ not. The rest of the Knights might not say anything to her face, but I’m  _ Mordred Pendragon _ , the fucking Knight of  _ Rebellion! _ If she’s wrong, then I’m going to tell her that she’s wrong!” 

Martha smiled then, a small smile, and laughed, the faintest huff of a laugh. “Good for you. I’m certain she needed to hear that.”

“But that’s not what  _ I  _ needed to hear,” he groaned, “I just want to know why she didn’t -” accept him, acknowledge him, “I just want to  _ understand _ . And I stormed out before I got to ask.”

Martha walked towards him, placed her hand on his shoulder, “Well, think of it this way, you’ve just told her that her thought process is shit. To her face. Without attempting to kill her. Not only that, but she approached you. That means, Mordred, that there’s still a chance that you’ll get to ask your question. And that means, Mordred, that there’s also a chance that you just helped her figure something out.” She patted her shoulder. “Better now?”

“No, yes,” he growled, a long exhale of air, “I’m confused, but no longer so annoyed. _ I think.” _

“Good.” She grinned, “Then my work here is done.” She winked, “Consider confession over, kid.” She walked past him to collect her things from one of the other chairs. 

“Fuck off!” Mordred called, “and I’m telling Gudao you swore!”

She stiffened, “It’s Gudako today Mordred, and you aren’t telling her anything!”

“You swore!”

“I did not!” She yelped, twirling around to glare at him.

“You said shit.” Mordred crossed his arms and grinned at her.

She lifted her nose into the air, “I don’t have to listen to these baseless acquisitions. Good day to you, Mordred.” She left the room, water bottle in hand and towel slung over her shoulder.

“You know I’m right!” He called after her, as the door swung shut. He thought of Father and the surprised look on her face, as if she’d expected him to drag her kingship through the dirt. “You know I’m right,” he said again, softer this time, into the empty room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if my characterization of Artoria seems a little bit off. I’ve only watched Fate/Zero and Fate/Stay Night: Unlimited Blade Works (not counting Apocrypha and Extra), and even then, I’ve seen Zero more times than I’ve seen Blade Works.


	14. Chapter 14

Artoria was left reeling, her face automatically snapping shut into default blankness. Don’t show, don’t show.  _ ‘You were a good king,’  _ from the lips of the Knight of Treachery himself. But she hadn’t been, hadn’t been, she hadn’t led them. She’d just been a figure head, a martyr, not a true king.  _ ‘We were all to blame for the fall of Camelot.’  _ Artoria closed her eyes, tried to take a few deep breaths, and Mordred’s face rose into her mind. Almost exactly like hers, with a sharpness that might have been from Morgana, twisted in anger, eyes flashing. Unease coiled, rose in her chest. Diarmuid said the last time Mordred had seen her, he’d flipped, he’d ran, he’d broken his arm and collapsed. What about this time, what would happen now? She got up, walked out, “Lily,” she said softly, and Lily looked at her with wide eyes, “Can you please follow Sir Mordred for me? Just to make sure he does not hurt himself.”

Something flashed in her face, and she nodded, “Of course Artoria,” then she was gone, rushing down the hallway. 

Artoria took another deep breath.  _ ‘You were a good king.’  _ How could he say that? He, who had more reason to reject her rule than anyone else?  _ ‘You were a good king.’  _ She thought of the banquet, so long ago, and of Lancelot’s blackened Berserker form. That had been proof, hadn’t it? Of Rider’s words; she’d driven her best friend into madness, was that not proof enough? And yet Mordred, her treacherous knight, her . . . her . . . he’d just stood there and yelled at her about how stupid she was for trying to put the blame of Camelot on her own shoulders. About how it was all of their faults, not just hers. 

_ ‘We were all to blame for the fall of Camelot.’ _

She was the king, the actions of her knights fell upon her shoulders. 

_ ‘So don’t you dare try to take our accomplishments and mistakes from us, because they are ours. Not. Yours.’ _

How odd it was to hear those words, not from Bedivere or Lancelot, but from the knight she’d driven to rebellion. She remembered that night Lily appeared at dinner, casually proclaimed that she’d played chess with Mordred and enjoyed it.  _ ‘He’s so different, so honest. He doesn’t hold anything back. If he doesn’t like something, he says so. If he does like something, he says so. It’s nice, you know, to not have to guess what everyone’s thinking.’  _ A subtle jab at them all, except for Irisviel, who didn’t hide what she felt either. Honest, Lily had called him. Honest, and didn’t hold anything back.

_ ‘You were a good king.’ _

What had she set out to accomplish here? She didn’t know. Diarmuid’s words had been swirling through her mind, mixing with Lily and Irisviel’s praise. She hadn’t been thinking when she’d started to search, and now she was here, drowning in doubts she hadn’t allowed herself to show to her other knights. Lily knew about them, she was Artoria after all, Irisviel knew, Diarmuid knew, but she hadn’t been able to tell her knights, to see what she feared in their eyes. Yet . . . yet . . .  _ ‘You were a good king.’ _

_ “Artoria, he’s fine,”  _ Lily’s voice in her mind,  _ ‘he’s venting to Martha right now. Taking it out on a punching bag. It’s nice that you’re worried about him.” _

Was she? Or had it been reflex from when she’d make sure her knights were alright, back in Camelot? She didn’t know, the lines blurred together, fuzzy and indistinct.  _ ‘Thank you, Lily, for your help. I will play a game of chess with you later to make up for it.” _

Lilly laughed, light in her mind, and Artoria wondered how. Had she ever laughed like that? So young and carefree? She must have, although it seemed a distant dream now.  _ “You don’t have to. Go, talk to them. It’s long past due anyway.” _

Artoria sighed, smoothed down her skirt, Mordred’s words still echoing through her mind. He’d dragged her through the dirt, dragged them all through the dirt, including himself, but that one little bit still rang clear in her ears.  _ ‘You were a good king.’  _ She took another breath, deep and calming, began to walk down the hall, steps slow and sure. Lily was right, she’d been putting this off for far too long, but still, it was almost amusing how it was Mordred who had pushed her to this.  _ “Sir Bedivere, Sir Lancelot, if you two have time, I would like to talk.” _

_ “Of course, my king,”  _ it was said in tandem, and Artoria almost smiled. Even telepathically, her knights were in sinc. Was it wrong for her to want to keep them safe? For her to keep her country safe? To save Britain? Surely not.

They met in Office 12, the same office where, unbeknownst to her, Irisviel, Emiya, her knights and the Chaos Crew had planned her party mere hours earlier. She arrived first, sitting in the head seat as was custom of her, back straight and hands in her lap. She forced her shoulders to relax, forced her blank mask to ease into something more natural. This was not a war meeting, they were simply going to discuss her doubts.

Her doubts.

Inwardly, she recoiled. She’d never expressed her doubts as king, how heavy her burdens lay on her shoulders. She’d been so certain back then, so confident of every move, and death hadn’t taken that from her. No, it had been the centuries in Avalon, surrounded by the dead, a battle scape from hell, her . . . Mordred’s shattered body with his hopeful, pained expression at her feet. How long had they cooked in her mind? Hidden in shadow until Rider’s words had forced them into light, until Lancelot’s twisted form made her realize the truth of her actions. What she had done to her people. 

_ ‘So don’t you dare try to take our accomplishments and mistakes from us, because they are ours. Not. Yours.’ _

The door opened, and Bedivere entered, trailed by Lancelot. Her oldest knight and her best friend, surely they would not hold the truth from her. They sat, and Bedivere leaned forwards slightly, “My king, what is it?” He said in his soft voice, because he’d always been the best at reading her. She could fool everyone else, including her brother, but never Bedivere’s watchful gaze.

She took a slow breath, not sure whether to let the worry and doubt show on her face or not. Bedivere could see it, he always could, but Lancelot? She sighed. “I spoke to Mordred today,” she started, and something dark flashed in Lancelot’s eyes, and for a second, she saw his long hair, darkened by water, instead of the shorter cut he wore in this form. She shook her head softly, “No, Lancelot, we did not come to blows, but nor did we reconcile either.” She wasn’t sure if she could, not with Mordred, who’d destroyed everything. But, she didn’t hate him, and . . .  _ ‘You were a good king.’  _ “I brought up something with him that I have been meaning to bring up with you two. His response was not what I expected.”

“Your majesty,” Bedivere said softly, and she nodded, giving him permission to speak, “Mordred has changed since Camelot,” he continued, “You two have not had the chance to see it, but I have. He has, grown in some sense, mellowed a bit. He is still Mordred, reckless, rude, strong, but he knows himself better, knows what he wants. I talked to him while we were on rotation, and he is willing to give the Knights of the Round Table a chance. Is willing to give us a chance. I believe we should do the same to him.”

Artoria tilted her head, acknowledging his point, although that had not been what she wished to speak about. Lancelot spoke, leaning back in his seat, crossing his arms. “I’ve seen him with the Chaos Crew, and despite only being here for a week and a half, they are closer than we ever were as the Knights of the Round. It makes me think about what we could have been if -”

“If we did not try so hard to be perfect.” Artoria said softly, and her two knights’ gazes snapped to her. “I met a Rider, in one of my Wars,” she continued, pulling herself up, forcing her gaze to stay steady. “We had a feast, a discussion of kingship. Do not get me wrong, he was a bad king. A good conqueror, but still a tyrant, and would have plunged the world into war for the sake of his dreams if he’d had the chance. But,” and her breath stuttered in her throat. She allowed herself to close her eyes, so she could not see their faces, the agreement that would surely be written across them. “But he raised several valid points about my own kingship, or, at least points that affirmed the doubts that had begun to rise during my years in Avalon. I was able to shake them off because of Irisviel, but Lancelot . . . your Berserker form. I drove you to that,” and for once, her voice broke, “I drove you to that. I . . . drove us all to Camlann.”

“Bullshit!” It was half a roar, and her eyes snapped open to see that Lancelot had jerked up, his chair sent skidding, eyes blazing with barely repressed fury. “That is absolute bullshit! You were the best of kings, I will not stand for you doubting yourself!” He swallowed hard, “I thought these words to you, my king, but in the depths of my madness I could not say them to you. I should have said them sooner, that is on me.” He closed his eyes, opened them again, and the fury had diminished slightly, hidden by pain. “I could not stop myself from loving Guinevere, so I was never able to forgive myself. However, my king, you never questioned me for my crimes. You never sought recompense. You simply continued to stand before us in your righteousness. But I desired judgement at your hands. Had your anger judged me, I might not have fallen onto the path of madness in search of atonement. But I can say this much with certainty, my king,” He swallowed hard, looked at her fiercely, “You were the greatest among all kings. All who served you felt the same way.” 

“Lance . . .” She breathed.

His hands fell to his side, limp, heavy, “That’s what I wanted to say, what I was unable to. My king, I did not go mad for hate of you. I went mad for hate of myself, for taking Guinevere from you.”

She stood, shaking, not sure what was running through her veins, but words pushing out past her lips anyway. “There was no reason for you to hate yourself!” And his head jerked to her, and she forged on, “I knew, long before Sir Agraiven found out. How could I not? Guinevere had been fading, Lance, she’d been fading and there was nothing I could do to help. I was a king, not a husband, I could not juggle both. So I chose kingship instead of her. And you chose her, and she was so happy . . . how could I hate you for bringing her such happiness? I thought you both were happy . . .” She closed her eyes, took a deep shuddering breath, feeling the burning in her eyes, spilling across her cheeks. How could she have been so blind to her best friend's torment?

Lancelot made a choked sound, “I was, and I wasn’t. I loved her, but I felt like I was betraying you. I could not stand that feeling, my king. But I never hated you. I could never hate you. You were, and always will be the best of kings.”

“We all believed so,” Bedivere said softly, “Even Tristan, even Mordred. We all believed so, and it was on us for not reaching out to you, for letting you carry the burden alone. We can’t do that anymore,” Artoria looked at him through the veil of tears, and so did Lancelot, scrubbing at his eyes, “The past is the past.” Bedivere continued. “We can not change it, but thanks to Chaldea, we have a chance at the future.” He stood, “I think we should take this chance to move forwards, to leave old regrets behind.” He bowed, fist over his chest “Forgive, my king, for my inability to give away Excalibur and the future that came out of it.”

“You are forgiven,” She whispered, hoarse as she wiped her cheeks.

“Forgive me, my king,” Lancelot said, kneeling, “for striking out in my anger, for making you doubt yourself so much, for . . .” He trailed off and sighed, “I guess you don’t want me to ask forgiveness for sleeping with your wife?”

“As long as you do not do it again,” she chuckled, a bit brokenly, “But yes, you are forgiven. Forgive me, my knights, for not reaching out when I needed it, for not understanding what you needed from me.”

“You’re forgiven,” They murmured back, and Bedivere lifted his head hesitantly, a flush darkening his cheeks. “Ah, Gudako is fond of,” he coughed, “group hugs at moments like this. Do you think we could . . . ah . . . have one? A group hug?” It was said in a small embarrassed voice, and Lancelot laughed as Artoria broke into a chuckle. 

“Yes,” she said, “come here.” And her knights made their way around the table, and for a second, they all stood there awkwardly, unsure, until Bedivere reached out and tugged bother her and Lancelot into a hug. She laughed again, wrapping her arms around Bedivere and Lancelot, and took a deep shuddering breath. Lancelot, the giant, shook slightly as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and an arm around Bedivere’s waist, and if either of them were crying, she didn’t look, because there were still tears staining her own cheeks. They stood there, for a long time silent, words mulling over and over in their heads.

Chaldea, a place where the past could be put aside in favor of the future. And there, in the embrace of her knights and . . . and her . . . and her son’s words still echoing in her ears, Artoria felt resolve build in her gut, settling to a comfortable warmth in her chest. Tomorrow, tomorrow she would try again, and this time she would say the words she had meant to say today.

In the end, Mordred chased Martha down and dragged her back to the training room, begging for a spar or at least something to keep the thoughts away. He got maybe an hour and a half of Martha adding her own two bits to Achilles’ teaching before Lily found him and dragged him away to retry their chess game. She was proud of  _ something _ : a delighted smile on her face and a bounce in her step, and her cheer managed to infect Mordred as well. By the time dinner rolled around, the knot in his chest had eased, and he was able to eat dinner  _ without  _ glancing over at Father’s table, where she and Irisviel and Lily and Bedivere and Lancelot sat.  _ No _ , he did not look over there, he focused on his meal, and then on Fran when she sat down before him, a sheaf of papers in her hands and wearing a shirt that read  WAKE UP. BE KIND. BE AWESOME. REPEAT.

Papers, he would need to get started on the letter again tonight, but now there was even  _ more  _ to say, twisting in his mind, running in circles over and over, refusing to leave. Instead, he swallowed his mouthful and pointed with his fork, “No food?”

She shook her head, hair swaying with the movement, and signed,  _ No food. I found a book about something interesting in the library, watch.  _ She took one of the pieces of paper, began to fold, the tip of her tongue peeking past her lips as she very carefully shaped the paper. Soon, she was holding a flower in her palms, beaming widely at Mordred. She set it on the table, began to sign again,  _ This way I can have all the flowers I want in my room!  _ Her eyes shone bright behind her bangs, gleeful at the discovery, and Mordred couldn’t help but grin at her enthusiasm.

“That’s great!” He said, reaching out to pick up the flower, gently, because it looked so fragile, so easy to crush. “Can you do just this type of flower? Or are there other types?” He set it back on the table, between the two of them, folds graced by the cafeteria lights. 

_ Other types,  _ Fran signed,  _ want to watch? _

“Sure.” She beamed at him again, and began to fold, each movement slow and careful. She looked so happy, with a small smile on her face, a slight, broken hum slipping past her lips, and even as he took a bite of food, then another, then another, he watched her slow, careful movements, the delight brightening her blue and amber eyes.

A  _ bang _ , a plate hit the table, Mordred spun, almost reaching for Clarent, but it was Proto standing there, face flushed and hands gripping the edges of his plate. “Which one of you two told?”

“Told who and what?” Mordred asked, too distracted by Proto’s shirt, which read,  I DON’T CARE WHO DIES IN A MOVIE AS LONG AS THE DOG LIVES.

Proto glanced around furtively, then sat, burying his hands in his hair. “Who leaked to the Gossip Gang about my you-know-what?”

Mordred did not remember anything about this you-know-what, but it seemed to click something in Fran’s memory. She stopped folding momentarily to sign,  _ Oh! About the fact you have a crush on Fuuma? _

“Yes,” Proto groaned, his head hitting the table. “CasCu knows,” he moaned, “I’m never going to get peace again.”

Mordred dug around in his memory for a few seconds, “Didn’t he  _ already  _ know?”

Proto tilted his head up and scowled, chin pressed against the table, “No. He had a suspicion, but nothing was proven, until someone told someone who told someone who told him!” He glared at the two of them, eyes flashing dangerously, “and the only people who knew were you two.”

Mordred tried to look innocent, but Fran saved him.  _ It could also have been Da Vinci,  _ she signed,  _ or Gudako, or Mash, or anyone else on your rayshift team. You are pretty transparent.  _ She paused for a second, head tilting, then signed again, a small, terrifying smile on her face.  _ We should make this a thing, dinner between the three of us. It will give Proto a safe place to hide from his other selves, and Mordred and I already eat dinner together anyway.  _ That tiny smile stretched just a bit,  _ We could even invite Fuuma. _

“I would literally combust,” Proto moaned, “I don’t think I could survive,” his forehead hit the table again, and Fran took pity on him and dropped the subject, going back to folding her origami flowers.

Mordred scarfed up a few more bites of his almost empty plate and said, “I’m not sure he’d come anyway, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in the cafeteria.” He turned back to his food, gobbled up the last bit, stared at Proto’s untouched plate hungrily. “Hey Proto, have you ever seen his room?”

“No,” came the muffled response.

Mordred clicked his tongue, “Shame,” then in a burst of lightning, he switched Proto’s plate with his, and began to eat again. Fran watched him with a raised eyebrow but didn’t say anything. “It’s pretty cool. He has a wall full of weapons.  _ Weapons _ . I  _ want  _ a wall full of weapons.”

“Is it sad that I’m jealous of you now?” Proto asked wearily.

_ “Yes.” _ Mordred said, immediately.

“Uh,” Fran confirmed. 

Proto sighed heavily and reached out, feeling around for his fork. Mordred started shoving as much of Proto’s food as possible into his mouth,  _ no  _ time to savor the taste,  _ only  _ time to eat. The Lancer lifted his head, “Hey, where's my -?” His gaze landed on Mordred’s half empty plate, and Mordred slowly swallowed his mouthful of food and stuck the next fork full of food into his mouth. “Mordred! You stole my food!”

Mordred chewed, swallowed again, “You should have eaten it faster.”

Proto gaped at him, “That’s not how that works!” He lunged forwards, and Mordred barely managed to grab the plate away in time. Fran sighed, put her newly folded flower on the table, then stood and walked away. “Give that back!” Proto’s hand’s snapped at the plate, Mordred twisted around to try to keep his grasping fingers away from his food.

“No.” Another mouthful shovelled into his gaping maw, then Proto managed to get his fingers around the edge of the plate and yank it away from his grip.  _ “Hey!” _ Mordred protested, “I wasn’t done with that!”

“Oh, such a shame,” Proto spat at him, “It’s not like it belonged to me in the first place!”

Twin thumps, the two turned as Fran set two more plates on the table and pushed them towards them.  _ There we go, crisis averted. Now stop scrapping, please. _

“Yes, ma’am.” Mordred said, abandoning the half done plate in favor for the full one.

“Thanks Fran,” Proto grumbled, staring sadly at his half empty plate, “but it’s not the same knowing that it’s been violated.”

She rolled her eyes,  _ Now you’re just being petty,  _ she signed, then she picked up the flower she’d been working on, a tulip with red petals. She leaned over the table, and tucked it into Mordred’s side braid, then leaned back as Mordred blinked in surprise at her, halting his chewing motion.  _ For you.  _ She signed, beaming, before sitting down and picking up another piece of paper. 

Mordred swallowed, “Uh, thanks?”

Proto snickered, then winced when Fran kicked him under the table. They resumed their meal in silence, Mordred gobbling up everything before him, Proto watching him with wary eyes, and Fran, slowly but surely, filling the table up with flowers.

_ The summoning is wrong in a way, twisting, beating faintly like a heartbeat in his ears. Alive is the word he wants to use. This summoning is alive, and that is unnerving. Faintly, he can hear his instincts screaming. He blinks the bright spots from his eyes, hears the clink of armor from his sides, and he twists immediately. He can’t believe it, it's not possible. To his left is Gawain, to his right, Gareth. Beyond his half siblings he can see Lancelot, and Agravain, and Tristan, and Kay, and his breath is flickering painfully in his throat. A chain summoning, how? Are they to fight each other? Who summoned them? what is going on?  _

_ The others are disoriented, he can see it in their blinking eyes and waving stances, but he’s already recovering, opening his mouth to ask the vital question. He doesn’t get a chance. From the shadows comes footsteps, metal against stone, and someone appears, silver armor, smooth and elegant and feminine, blue cloth, a helm shaped like a lion’s head, white fur forming a mane and lining the white cloak. Glass amber eyes glitter from within the depths of the helm, impossibly real, and Mordred feels the strength drain from his limbs and his knees hit the ground. He is startled by this sudden weakness, it’s not like him to just fall down but he’s not the only one. Around him, the Knights of the Round fall to the ground in the presence of this person. No, whomever it is, this is no person, cannot be a person. This is a god. Then the god reaches up and removes their helm, revealing their face . . . _

_ It’s Father. _

_ It’s Father, and Mordred can no longer breathe. He (She? They?) are different, so totally different. The face is the same, blank and empty, but somehow older, more mature. Father’s hair is longer, trailing in gold locks past the shoulders, held up in his customary bun on the back. There’s a crown in his hair, delicate and gold, with a cross hanging between his brows. The eyes are wrong, greener, so, so green, like new leaves, and the pupils are gold, glowing bright against the light green background. And then he speaks, and his voice is deep and melodic, like music, but it is distant as well, and Mordred can’t help but listen closely. “My knights,” he says, with that beautiful voice, “and my son,” and Mordred’s heart stops, “long ago, we failed in our task to create a metropolis, for it ended in blood and battle. But now, now it is different, times have changed, and the world is in danger.” His gaze, that utterly inhuman gaze, rakes over them all, and Mordred can’t help but feel that he is peering into the crevasses of his soul, “I have called you here, my sworn knights, so you may try again. So that we may save the world. So stand with me one last time.” _

_ And Mordred can do nothing, does not want to do anything, beyond accept. _

_ “Mordred, you know this is wrong!” Gareth grabs his shoulder, spinning him around. Her eyes are wide, her hair flopping around her face, “You know this is wrong! The King, she is not right! How can we save the world by killing so many?” _

_ Mordred jerks away from her touch, “What are you talking about, of course Father is right!” He accepted him after all, called him son, gave him an important duty. He will follow him to the ends of the earth if necessary. “We’re saving the world, Gareth.” He scoffs, “Of course people are going to die to accomplish that.” _

_ She jerks back her head as if stung, “But entire villages, children?!” He growls in annoyance, and she grabs at his shoulder again, “Mordred, the sands are running red with their blood,” and tears are gathering at the corner of her eyes. “This isn't right. You know that.” _

_ And perhaps part of him does, buried deep under the bloodlust and the ecstasy of having a father for the first time. And perhaps part of him recognizes that this is wrong, that Father is using him like Morgana used him, that he should rebel, because isn’t that who he is? The Knight of Rebellion? And perhaps part of him knows that she is right, because that part of him has always followed the rules of chivalry, protecting the weak, not dragging extra’s into battles, not killing more than the enemy. But those parts are buried, buried deep, deep within him, barely a whisper in his mind. Gareth does not understand. How could she? She hadn’t been there for the fall of Camelot, hadn’t made any mistakes, just as Kay, also spreading these words of rebellion, never faltered from Father’s side. They don’t have anything to prove, but the rest of them? This is their chance for redemption. _

_ So he pushes her off again, “Look, Gareth, I like you, so I won’t tell Agravain about how you’re planning to overthrow Father. This better be the last I hear of your stupid ideas. We’re saving the world, get that through your head. We’re saving the world, no matter what the cost.” He walks away, helm clicking around his face so he doesn’t have to see her pained expression again. _

_ It is the last time he sees Gareth. _

_ And Kay never appears again. _

_ Sanzang, that meddlesome, ditzy monk, is allowed to leave, and Mordred is disgusted at that fact. He didn’t like her, but Gawain did, and that is enough to make him vocal about it. But Agravain is adamant about the fact that they should let her go, and none of them will argue with Father’s orders. _ _ They are loyal, all of them loyal, to Father, from now until the end. no matter what.  _

_ Gawain makes a mistake. There was a ruckus and many were lost, fled into the sands. Mordred is delighted at the fact that Gawain has messed up, he so rarely does it, and it’s always wonderful to be reminded that the perfect knight is not so perfect after all. But cutting off his head is extreme, and something in Mordred rebels at the thought, at the idea that one mistake could lead to death. He’s not sure why he tries to stop Tristan, perhaps it is instinct, perhaps something else, but he’s glad he does. Because that is what leads to Gawain revealing that there were two unknown Servants in the crowd, because that is what leads to Father coming in the room. It is the first time in half a year Mordred has seen him, and as Agravain prattles on about his report, Mordred basks in Father’s radiance and the certainty that he is acknowledged, that he is useful, that he is wanted.  _

_ Something in him twists at the thought, disgusted at himself, but he ignores it. _

_ And the hilarity of seeing Gawain fly from a single strike of Father’s lance washes away the feeling, and once again he is in the present. Mordred can’t help but narrate, because Agravain’s eyesight is weak, and he can’t help but poke fun at Tristan, because he called it, hadn’t he? He’d called it. Then Father’s eyes snap towards him. “Mordred. I don't recall granting you citizenship to the Holy City. You are only allowed to stay in the city during the day. Return to your natural domain.” _

_ Once again, there is that twist in his stomach, and once again, he ignores it. “Yeah, I'll go back to the wasteland! Leave guarding the outside to me, Father!” He leaves, Clarent on his shoulder, chin up because as much as that unnamed thing twists, he delights in being useful, being wanted, being acknowledged. _

_ He thinks, for a second, that he can hear Agravain questioning, hear Father threatening, and that something twists painfully in him again. How the tables have turned, in more ways than one. _

_ He finds a village, and takes out his frustrations on them. It has a guardian, of course it does, and she (they?) is startled that he found it. She thought it was hidden. She does not understand, he is a creature of instinct and he will do whatever it takes to keep Father’s favor. Because part of him knows, part of him understands, part of him hates what he has become. So he lashes out, because it feels like the only certain part of himself, that anger, rushing through his veins, burning through his body. He may be uncertain about his mind, but he is certain about one thing, that anger will always stay the same. So he lets it go, lets it burn, and let’s them suffer. “How are you gonna pay for this, huh!? I've only got a few days left until I'm executed!” He shouts out, words ripped from his throat, loud and clear into the smoke filled air. And somehow, it’s relieving to say it, to throw it out there. If he is not useful, Father will kill him. But that is fine because Father acknowledged him and Mordred will be useful. _

_ Once again, that sick feeling twists. _

_ Once again, he ignores it. _

_ The assassin recoils, surprise flashing across her skull mask, “Executed? They're going to execute you? A Knight of the Round Table?” She doesn’t believe it. She should. _

_ So he nods, and grins, as if the idea doesn’t make him sick somewhere inside, “Yup, that's right! Once Father's Holy Selection is done, everyone outside the Holy City is going to hell! He didn't give me a castle in the Holy City, so that means I'm going up in flames, too!” But he acknowledged Mordred as his son, and that means so much more to him then any castle or guarantee of survival, “So how 'bout it, eh? We're both gonna die in vain anyway. Tell me the village where those traitors escaped to. If you do, I'll give you a nice, easy death. I won't even manhandle the villagers, just slit their throats.” _

_ She stumbles back from his next attack, and he twists away from one of her copies. “Such foolishness... You people have gone mad. You've even ceased to believe in God…” _

_ “Argh, shut up!” Ripped from his throat, loud and painful, “If anything, I'd doubt your own sanity in defying Father!” _

_ A soldier interrupts, an impossible cry from his lips, “Sir Mordred! Enemy ambush from the rear!” _

_ It is Bedivere and Galahad, though he wears a different face and body, and a girl whose face is vaguely familiar, as if he’s seen her in a dream. They shout his name, the Master smiles, then he speaks and the delighted looks fall from their faces. Something twists in him, hard and painful, and all he can do is fall back on his rage and Father’s gift. So he fights, and he rages, for Father and his dream, because he has been acknowledged and perhaps if he does enough, takes the traitor and the rebels back, Father will bring him into Camelot before the end. But, impossibly, Bedivere’s arm begins to glow, and Mordred begins to lose. The feeling is familiar, the glow from Bedivere’s arm, as if from long ago, and that twisty, whispering part of him is almost satisfied that he might die here. But no, he won’t, he refuses. He is Mordred Pendragon and he will be useful for Father until his last breath. And the rage builds and builds, destructive and dangerous, turning his vision red and sending lightning scattering across his armor, but their Archer interrupts, and his words make Mordred think. He can not be useful to Father if he dies. So he leaves, the anger still rushing through his veins, under his control now, but still rushing, drowning out the little voice that protests in the back of his mind. _

_ Mordred sits silently in the throne room of Camelot, rage warring with glee, glee warring with that pit in his stomach, that pit in his stomach warring with rage. Whomever that Master was, who’d met him in a past summoning, she must have made quite an impression, to affect him like this. But he won’t let it affect him, he is Mordred Pendragon, and he is loyal to Father and Father alone. They’re arguing, he thinks, he’s paying attention with half an ear, and he listens as it is revealed that the pesky Archer who had calmed his rage had blocked Father’s lance. It is impressive, and he says so, and he is quickly shot down. But delight and bloodlust has lit in his chest, he can’t wait to take that Archer down. Then Tristan brings the traitor, the weakest of them, the inconsequential Bedivere, up, and chaos is sewn between the knights. But the chaos is stilled, suddenly, because Father does not remember Bedivere. _

_ And for some reason that makes Mordred’s instincts scream. _

_ They’re rushing through the courtyard when Mordred attacks, Bedivere is barely able to block his blow, and Mordred is sent flying back. He lands, lightning crackling around his form, eager and ready, the rage surging through his blood and bones. Powerful.  _

_ Painful.  _

_ “Mordred!” Bedivere calls, and once again that unnamed thing twists within him.  _

_ “Don't call me like you know me, coward!” He shouts out, trying to bury the feeling, “Just like I said I would, I hit you with a fair-and-square surprise attack!” _

_ The girl who is also Galahad gets her shield ready, but she looks confused, “Mordred... I thought you were fighting outside the Holy City!?” _

_ He snorts harshly, straightens, “Huh? Gawain can deal with that trash himself.” He points Clarent at her, light playing off the blade, sparking towards the ground. “I came to take you out. That was our promise, right?” _

_ “That's... That's true. But I don't…” Her voice trails off, she looks so unsure, and that little voice in him is screaming now, but he ignores it. _

_ “Tch. You're throwing me off my game, shieldy. More importantly, where are they?” He’d noticed a lack of a certain Archer before his attack, and he needs to know where they are. So he can defeat them.  _

_ “Who?” The Master askes, her voice calm and certain, and once again there’s a twinge in his chest that he doesn’t like. _

_ “You know, the Archer that was with you! Is he at the rear, sniping again?!? Hey, show yourself!” He looks around again, but there is nothing. _

_ “Arash Kamangir is gone,” the girl who is Galahad says, “He defeated the Light of Judgment and saved the village.” _

_ And Mordred can’t stop the surprise from flashing across his face, nor the note of anger and sadness in his voice. “I see. So he died before I could beat him, huh? Damn it. He won and ran away.” His sword dips slightly and he scowls. _

_ “You two didn’t fight,” The Master says, and the anger rushes up again. _

_ “Sure it is! He stopped Father's sacred lance!” He’s gesturing now, wildly, violently, lightning sparking with every move, “I was never able to do that even until my death. I can't believe some minor no-name took that lance out first. Whatever. Just one less thing to look forward to! You're all gonna burn from Father's lance anyway! Now get ready, wimps! I'll at least give you the honor of dying by my hand!” He points his sword again, bloodthirsty grin crawling across his face. _

_ “No,” Bedivere says, soft and sure, “if you want to die, do it on your own, Mordred. We have no time to waste on your desire for destruction.”  _

_ And Mordred’s heart stops. “...What?” Then it starts again, faster, harder, angrier, “What did you say? Are you picking a fight with me, you coward!?” _

_ And Bedivere steps up, eyes blazing, arm glowing, “I am indeed! It is a disgrace that you call yourself King Arthur's heir! No matter how cruel you were, you once did your duties as a general. But now there's not a trace of that! You fight alone! Without taking command of your men! And you look at this situation and think nothing of it? The king is trying to burn the world, and his own men!” _

_ And it hurts, almost, it hurts. It makes that little voice inside louder because somehow he’s right. (A king looks after his people.) That’s what Father is doing. (You would have been a good king.) Of course he would, of course, Father acknowledge him, after all. (If a person like me was able to save London.) What are these words, building in his mind? No. He refuses. He stamps them out and turns his anger outward. “Is this what this is about? Are you stupid or something?” And he gestures wildly once again. “My Father's killing his own men? Of course . . . Of course he would! Listen! An army is the last thing the Lion King needs! The Lion King's idea is a city with no war. In that case, why would you need an army!? We're going to protect the Holy City and die here! We'll be the Foundation of Humanity created by the Lion King! That's what the Lion King's Round Table is all about! It was the honor of a knight, which you were given and we weren't! You were at King Arthur's side to the last. How would you know about our feelings!?” He pants it out, breath harsh against his throat, and Bedivere steps back hurt flashing across his face. _

_ “Mordred... You…” _

_ “Shut up! You just came out of nowhere after all that happened . . . You're really pissing me off, Bedivere!” He lunges, a burst of red energy, and Clarent crashes against Bedivere’s arm, burning so bright it hurts his eyes. In the beginning, Mordred hated fighting, but as he grew older, he grew to love it. The ability to prove that he was the strongest, the most powerful. It had been the same now, different, yes, desperate perhaps, but still the same. But this confrontation feels wrong, final. Each blow, each snarl, feels like a heartbeat stuttering to nothing, sounds like the final clash against Clarent and Excalibur. He stumbles back, bleeding and burnt, his rage gone, nothing but ash. “Gah! Grah . . . It'll take more than that . . . I'm not going to disappear . . . The only one who can end me is King . . . Arthur . . .” _

_ “Enough, Mordred. I'm sorry for tainting your dream.” Bedivere murmurs, arm dripping blood against the ground. _

_ The rage is gone, but he knows it well enough to construct a facsimile. “What . . . did . . . you . . . say!?” _

_ Bedivere looks at him, eyes full of understanding and hurt, “But it will stay a dream. You are the Knight of Treachery. The day you want to serve King Arthur from the bottom of your heart . . . will never come . . . The same is true for me. The reason I was at the king's side at the end was because I was weak. I was not able to save him on the battlefield. And the reason you couldn't deliver the king's death was because . . . you were weak. We were both incompetent as knights. We were never worthy to be by the king's side . . . However, despite being hated by the king, you still possess this innocent dream. The dream of serving the king. In that sense, you have surpassed me. You live a much purer life than a sinner like me. Forgive me for insulting it. . . My sword shall inherit your atonement.” He bows his head. _

_ And all Mordred can do is fake and fake and fake and fake, because he’s dying and leaving because Bedivere is right and he hates it. Because that little voice within is growing and growing and growing and growing, and it takes all his strength and all his will to not let it loose. He will be loyal to Father until the end, no matter what Bedivere says. “Tch . . . What the hell are you talking about? . . . Man, this is lame. I lost to a coward in a fight, and lost to their trash talk. This really is the end for me. If the Knight of Treachery loses to a traitor, what's the point of me staying?” Then he is gone, before the little voice can push past his lips and say _

_ I didn’t want this. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Broke: Lancelot was in love with Artoria but slept with Guinevere because she was the next best thing.  
> Woke: Lancelot was in love with both Artoria and Guinevere, but wasn’t sure how to express that, so he was just constantly torn into pieces without knowing why. SO in other words, Lancelot is both bi and poly. *mic drop*


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scheduled for Today: Fran once again wins the award for best quote, the Artorias’ birthday party begins to come together, RIP Proto 2020, me chanting “SaberIri” over and over, glitter bomb cannons, will I ever give up the fact that Artoria’s basically a harem protag? No, movie night II & the aftermath, the final dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S THE FINAL COUNT DOWN!! Holy smokes people, one chapter before the ending, oh fuck it's happening. You can't hear me right now but I'm screaming. Anyway, enough about my emotional breakdown, I want to thank you all (once again) for your comments and kudos. You all are too kind to me, I swear. And I treasure each and everyone of them. Here's the next chapter, and I hope you all have a lovely day. (Better then my next week as I sob over the keyboard).
> 
> As always, possible triggers, please be careful folks.

The first thing Mordred did when he was released from the dream was rush to the bathroom and throw up in the toilet, retching as if he could wash the taste of wrongness from his mouth. Because it had been wrong. So very  _ wrong _ , the way he’d been in Camelot. So  _ needy _ , so  _ desperate _ , so  _ happy  _ to be acknowledged that he’d become what he’d always tried not to be, a tool. And it was still there,  _ somewhere _ , buried deep within him, that dark part of him, sleeping until awoken. And he wanted to claw himself open and rip that part of him out. 

He fell to his knees, rested his head against the cold porcelain, and closed his eyes. His mouth tasted of bile, the air frigid against his sweat soaked skin. He needed that cold. Was almost glad of it. He needed  _ something  _ to force the bitterness and dry heat of Camelot from his mind, the wrongness of it.

But somehow, it was nice to know that  _ some  _ part of him had fought against the Lion King, some part of him had resisted and rebelled. Because he was  _ Mordred  _ fucking  _ Pendragon _ , the goddamned  _ Knight  _ of  _ Rebellion _ . And sometimes rebelling  _ didn’t  _ mean against a place or a person or a system.  _ Sometimes  _ it meant rebelling against a thought, or a speech, or even himself. And he had  _ succeeded _ , some part of him, deep down, had stayed the same. If only it had bubbled up sooner.

_ If only. _

He pushed himself up, turned on the sink, and splashed cold water against his face. Bedivere’s words rang in his mind, ‘ _ You are the Knight of Treachery. The day you want to serve King Arthur from the bottom of your heart . . . will never come.’  _ He snarled silently at the mirror, saw his blue-green eyes, his Father’s eyes, flash angrily in the reflection. _ Of course _ it wouldn’t, he’d lost that chance. Besides, he  _ wasn’t  _ Father’s knight now, he was  _ Gudako’s _ . And Bedivere’s words,  ‘ _ You are the Knight of Treachery.’  _ weren’t true either, although he doubted Bedivere knew it. Treachery meant betrayal, and he  _ hadn’t  _ betrayed Kairi, and he  _ hadn’t  _ betrayed Ilsi, he  _ hadn’t  _ betrayed Gudako and he _ would not  _ betray Gudako. So no, he was not the Knight of Treachery. 

Rebellion suited him better.

He cupped his fingers underneath the spray of water, poured some into his mouth, swished, spat. He pushed away from the sink, running his hands through his hair. He could go to the simulation room tonight, fight with Kotarou, but the idea of fighting so soon after the memories of the blood hungry weapon he’d been in Camelot made him feel sick again. He left the bathroom, rubbing his eyes, wondering if he should try his chances at sleep once again, and stopped, staring. 

On his table sat the tulip Fran had made for him. The sharp folds of the green stem and leaf, the softer folds of the red petals. He moved over instinctually, picking it up, the paper cool and soft as he twirled it between thumb and forefinger. No, a fight wasn’t what he wanted right now, he just needed to . . . clear his head. Regain  _ some  _ semblance of peace. So he set the paper flower down, grabbed his jacket, pulled it on. He pulled his hair into its customary tangled ponytail, skipping the braids, and then, after a second's hesitation, picked up the tulip and slipped it into his pocket.

He left, hesitating once again on the barrier between room and hall, before shutting the door behind him.

Mordred knocked on Fran’s door, and realized, belatedly, that she might not even be up. It was the middle of the night, she was probably sleeping, like  _ any  _ reasonable person would be. He hesitated for a few seconds, then turned to leave. Perhaps he would go to the simulation room, fight something with Kotarou instead.

The door creaked open, revealing Fran, her hair mussed with sleep, rubbing her eyes, clad in light blue pajama’s at least a size too big for her. She blinked at Mordred for a few seconds, blue and amber eyes unfocused. “ . . . Mordred . . .?”

He shifted back onto his heels, rubbing his hair and glancing away from her awkwardly. “Hey, Fran. I,” he sighed heavily, “I had a bad dream, and I was wondering if . . .”   
“Uh,” he glanced at her as she stepped back from the door, and he sighed and walked inside. Her room was different then last time, she’d gotten her furniture in. Bookshelves lined one wall, already half filled with titles. Instead of a table or a kotatsu, she had a desk, pushed against the wall beside her bed, There was a vase full of her paper flowers, and ones without stems decorated the surface along with a few scattered sheets of paper. There was a rug on the floor, crochet, with a vague flowery feel. The whole room had a welcoming, peaceful air, and Mordred could feel some of the tension drain from his shoulders.

“Thanks,” he said as he entered, and Fran shut the door softly behind him. “You know you can get actual plants? Kotarou has one in his room. I’m pretty sure you can get Gudako to get you one.”

_ I’ll have to do that.  _ She signed. She hesitated for a few seconds, then tilted her head.  _ Do you want to talk about it? _

“I  _ don’t _ ,” he growled out, “I just needed -  _ well _ ,” he sighed, ran his hand through his hair, and growled again when his fingers hit the hair tie. “ _ Fine _ . Sure. Can I sit?”

_ Go ahead,  _ He nodded and sat down on the bed, and she sat down beside him, looking at him with worried eyes.  _ You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. _

He fell onto his back, feeling the mattress bounce beneath him, staring up at the ceiling. “I need - ugh.  _ Camelot _ . Fucking  _ Camelot _ . You weren’t there, but I just got full fucking body immersion cause of these stupid dreams. And -” He waved his hands around, let them fall, “I’m just  _ sick  _ and fucking  _ tired  _ of these dreams. I’m just sick and fucking tired of all this  _ stupid shit _ .” He turned his head to the side and stared at her. She watched him with her dual colored eyes, gentle and soft, comforting, and something in his chest loosened. “I remembered London, that wasn’t that bad. But, Camelot,” he groaned, “I  _ wasn’t  _ myself there. Well, I guess I was, but I was my  _ worst  _ fucking self. And . . . and I don’t ever want to be like that again.”

Fran reached out and brushed his bangs from his face, her fingers cold against his skin, before pulling back and signing.  _ You won’t be. You’re a good person, Mordred. Yes, you have your darker parts, but don’t we all? Life is not black or white, it’s shades upon shades of grey, and we’re all stuck somewhere on the spectrum. You helped protect me in London, and Shakespeare, and Anderson, and Jekyll, and Gudako and Mash. _

“And in Camelot I was a  _ monster _ . I  _ killed  _ people,  _ a lot _ of people, elders, children, innocents. And I  _ enjoyed  _ it.”

_ And in London you saved a lot of people. And you are careful, aren’t you? Not to drag people into your battles, right? _

“Well, yeah,” he mumbled.

_ You are a better person than you think you are, Mordred. And you are not the person you were in Camelot.  _ She tilted her hand and smiled down at him,  _ I can promise you that, Mordred. I may not have been there, but if it’s tearing you up this much, then I can assure you that you’re a different person. _

“But, I  _ could  _ become that version of myself.” He argued, desperately although he wasn’t sure  _ why _ .

Fran stared at him,  _ No, I don’t think you ever could.  _ And Mordred fell silent, words drying up in his throat, staring up at her.  _ Trust me on this, Mordred.  _ Each sign was sharp and certain, almost forceful, until finally her hands came to rest.

Slowly, he nodded, “ _ Okay _ . Okay.” He closed his eyes and sighed, “Thanks Fran, you’re the best.”

She giggled softly,  _ Of course, always. Now, are you going to sleep here? Or are you going to sleep in your room? _

He froze for a second, then pushed himself back up into a sitting position. “Uh, can I sleep here? I mean if you’re sleeping then I don’t have to but I - er.” He coughed, then drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. “TheonlytimeI’vemanagedtosleepwithoutgettingbombardedwithmemorieswaswhenIwassleepingwithyouintheroom.” He mumbled, hiding his face. God, this was  _ embarrassing _ . What was he, a kid?  _ Sheesh _ . 

But Fran, after staring at him for a few seconds with wide eyes, jolted into action.  _ Of course! Whatever you need! It will be a sleepover!  _ She beamed at him, bright and happy and shining, and Mordred, hesitantly, grinned back.

After breakfast, Mordred got bombarded by a message from Bedivere,  _ “Lancelot and I have managed to book one of the entertainment rooms for tomorrow. If the Chaos Crew can meet us in the one closest to the labs, that would be wonderful. Irisviel, I need you to distract Artoria. Possibly for the whole day if need be.”  _ He sounded somewhat lighter, happier, and Mordred wondered exactly what had happened.

Cu slumped dramatically, “Damn,” he moaned, “and here I was hoping Mordred and I would have enough time to spar.”

Mordred snorted, and with Fran’s talk still in his mind, he didn’t feel quite so bad about the flash of excitement that skittered through his veins at the prospect. “As long as you agree to not have your boyfriend interrupt this time.”

Cu grinned at him, all teeth and flashing eyes, “I don’t think that will be a problem.”

“I do have a question about that,” Achilles said, arms crossed and a frown on his face “I thought he was your fiancé. But yesterday he denied being your fiancé. I feel as if there’s gossip I’m missing here.”

“Yes,” Diarmuid agreed with a flat face as he held open the door for them, “there is indeed juicy gossip hidden in that story.”

Cu paled slightly, “Which is why we aren’t going beyond the fact that he thought I was joking.”

“ _ Wait _ ,” Mordred elbowed Cu in the side, “I want to hear this story.”

“Really? Well I want to hear what you were doing in Fran’s room last night.” Mordred choked and Cu smirked, wagging a finger at him, “Don’t try to hide it, Alter saw you leaving her room this morning. And the two of you had breakfast together.”

“Yeah,” Mordred said, recovering, “We had a sleepover.”

“A sleepover, huh?” Achilles grinned, immediately switching targets and wiggling his eyebrows, “You know, there are all kinds of things that can happen at sleepovers.”

“WHAT THE  _ HELL  _ IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?!”

“Guys,” Diarmuid said, “if we don’t get moving, we’re going to be late.”

_ “Shit!” _ Mordred decided to ignore Achilles and Cu’s laughter and whatever the  _ hell  _ they were trying to insinuate, and blasted down the hall, lightning trailing in his wake. “RACE YOU!” He shouted behind him, the air pressing against his face as he hurtled forwards. Today, today they had to set up the party. And later? Later he had a letter to finish.

Mordred  _ burst  _ through the door first, a cannon ball of brilliant red light, arms crossed in front of his face to protect it. He hit the ground, rolling, pushing himself back up, whooping with delight as Achilles and Diarmuid crashed through the swinging door after him, Cu barely a second behind them. Bedivere looked up from where he and Lancelot were bent over an open book lying on one of the tables. “Well, that was more exciting than anticipated.”

Mordred stopped his brief victory dance to stare at the book. “Welcome to the Chaos Crew. Watcha reading?”

Lancelot reached out and snapped the book shut, a look of utter mortification and embarrassment on his face. He was actually blushing. Lancelot. Blushing. The words didn’t want to go together, but there it was, a flush high on his cheeks. “Nothing.” 

“That sure as hell doesn’t look like nothing,” Achilles said, grinning widely. “Come on, tell the small knight whatcha got there?”

“Nothing.” He repeated again, eyes darting around as if looking for an escape.

“ _ Come on, _ Sir Lancelot,” Mordred whined, “You’re a  _ knight _ . Knights don’t lie.”

“It’s okay Lancelot,” Bedivere said, “It’s the twenty first century, people are hardly going to -”

“Beidivere if you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut up,” Lancelot hissed, eyebrow twitching and face flaming. Mordred stared, he’d never heard Lancelot speak with that voice, at least not directed towards one of the Knights of the Round. It was the voice he’d used with enemies one step from their destruction.

_ “Oh, we are so getting that book.”  _ Mordred sent to Achilles, Cu, and Diarmuid.

_ “Seconded,”  _ Achilles smirked,  _ “Anyone catch the page they were on?” _

_ “I might have,”  _ Cu thought.

_ “I can already hazard a guess what that book will be about.”  _ Mordred glanced at Diarmuid, but besides the gleam in his eyes, there was nothing in his face that showed what he meant. Instead, the Lancer cast his gaze around the entertainment room. “What do we have planned for this place, Bedivere?”

“Oh yes,” Bedivere said with a smile, “Plans. This room is definitely big enough to hold a gathering of people, but certain things will have to be removed. Like the giant tv. And the shelving system. And the pool table and pool supplies. The question is where to put it all.”

Lancelot took a deep breath and brushed his hair back from his face. “We could put it in one of the storage rooms, but the problem with putting it in there is that Da Vinci often takes parts from what’s in storage. I hesitate to wonder what she’ll do if she finds a whole TV in there.”

Achilles grinned, “I don’t know but I think it would be hilarious to find out.”

“Better idea,” Cu said, slamming his fist down onto his palm, “We put it in Proto’s room. He can sleep in either CasCu or Alter’s room in the meantime.” Mordred stared at him. He was grinning, all his teeth on display. There  _ had  _ to be an ulterior motive there.

“Are you sure he won’t mind?” Bedivere wondered.

“Oh no,” Cu grinned wider, “He’ll be fine.” 

Oh yes,  _ definitely  _ an ulterior motive.

“Good,” Diarmuid said, crossing his arms, “Anything else we need to get done today?”

“Most of the decorations,” Mordred said immediately, “The ones that take the longest to put up. We did get those ordered, right?”   
“Right.” 

“Then we should probably pick those up. Who wants that job?” 

“I can,” Diarmuid said, rubbing his thumb over the bandaid on his cheek. “If you and Cu and Achilles can hide the TV, storage containers, pool table, and pool supplies. I figure our resident perfect Knights of the Round would prefer to keep their hands mostly clean if Tomoe finds out that we’ve relocated her favorite TV.”

Everyone but Bedivere paled. “This isn’t her preferred location,” he said smoothly, “but I have already told her that this room will be out of commission for a few days. Just to save us all from gamer retribution.”

Lancelot nodded, “That is probably for the best, if word got out and she wasn’t prepared . . .” He trailed off, and Mordred tried to imagine what death from Tomoe would be like. He’d only met her once, but somehow, she seemed the type to get  _ really  _ violent while angry. 

“What about Lilly?” Mordred asked, “I know Father’s distracted, but what about Lilly?”

“She’s normally with Jack and Alice at this time.” Lancelot said, “and Salter is on rotation today, as for the Lion King . . .” He trailed off as Mordred winced. Lancelot smiled, something infinitely sad and understanding, “She’s different, then the one in Camelot. Before Rhongomyniad took complete control. I do not believe she is planning on attending the party.”

Mordred swallowed, “Fine.”

“Good,” Bedivere nodded once, “Then I will go alert Romani to where we are putting all this equipment. Lancelot, if you could go help Diarmuid with the decorations?”

The two glanced at each other, and Lancelot nodded, “Very well.”

Bedivere beamed, “Wonderful, then I shall be off.” He swept out of the room, and after a second's hesitation, Lancelot and Diarmuid followed.

Mordred waited for five seconds, then lunged at the table to where the book lay on its gleaming wood, forgotten by all but the three left in the room. It wasn’t a thin book, but it wasn't a thick book either, somewhere in between, possibly on the slimmer end of the scale. The title was looped and hard to read, but with effort, Mordred was able to make out the words.  _ A Beginners Guide to LGBT+ Terms.  _ Like he knew what  _ that  _ meant, “Cu, what page?”

Cu reached over and scooted the book closer to him, arm pressing against the sleeve of Mordred’s jacket. Achilles leaned over them both, casting his shadow onto the pages as Cu flipped through them.  _ Finally _ , the Lancer stopped. “I think it was this one.” He tapped the page, where a list of words beginning with o turned to a list of words that began with p. “No, wait, not this page, this one.” He flipped the page, tapped it thoughtfully “Wonder what they were looking at?”

“I can guess,” Achilles said, slipping his arm between them and pointing to a word.

**_Polyamorous:_ ** _ the practice of, or desire for, intimate relationships with more then one partner. _

Mordred frowned, “Intimate relationships? What the  _ hell  _ does that mean?”

“That means sex, Mordred.” Achilles said. Cu sent him a raised eyebrow, and Achilles sighed heavily. “Fine, I amend my statement. It doesn’t just mean sex, it could also mean being in love with more then one person at the same time.”

Mordred wrinkled his nose, “So, why in the world was Sir Bedivere and Sir Lancelot looking at  _ this _ ?”

“I think I’ll leave the explanation to Diarmuid,” Cu stated, closing the book and sliding it back into its normal position. “Achilles, I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t leak this info to the Gossip Gang, this is . . . kinda personal for your guys normal gossip.”

“I  _ still  _ don’t understand.”

“Don’t worry Cu,” Achilles took a step back, “I don’t plan on leaking that bit.” Then he reached over and ruffled Mordred’s hair, “and you don’t worry either. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

Mordred pivoted, eyes flashing, “ _ SHUT _ THE FUCK  _ UP  _ WITH THE WHEN YOU’RE OLDER  _ SHIT _ !”

Achilles stumbled back, eyes comically wide, hands up as if to defend himself. “Oh yes, prince of . . . uh . . . something. Fuck. I didn’t think this thro -” He tripped over his own feet, fell hard, and ‘oof’ bursting from his lips. “-ugh.” He finished weakly from the floor.

Mordred’s anger vanished, and he burst out laughing, leaning on the table to support himself. Cu snorted loudly. “Come on guys, we have to get all this shit into Proto’s room before he notices. Which means we have to do it quickly. Who wants to take the TV?”

“I will,” Achilles said, pushing himself to his feet then rubbing the back of his head. “Since Mordred’s too short to lift it. HEY! Don’t give me that look! You know it’s true!”   
Mordred scowled at him, “ _ What _ the fuck  _ ever _ . But seriously, Cu, what’s the ulterior motive here?”

Cu chuckled, a sound that might have been just a shade maniacal. “Well, Proto’s been dodging our questions about his crush. So, by filling his room with stuff, he’ll be unable to hide from us there. We’re cornering him to grill him.”

“There are like a thousand other places to hide in Chaldea,” Achilles pointed out, “and Proto’s been here longer than all three of us. He definitely won’t be found if he doesn’t want to be found.”

“Sure,” Cu said, shrugging, “But he’s a Chulainn. Once he sees his room full of stuff, he’ll confront us. And then we’ll have him.”

Mordred winced, and decided that he should probably tell Proto what was happening since he had  _ technically  _ set these events into motion. But later, because first he was most definitely going to help them fill up Proto’s room with the giant TV plus the whole entertainment room’s storage system plus the pool table plus the pool equipment. It was going to be  _ glorious _ .

As long as they weren’t caught.

“Irisviel,” Artoria asked as she slipped her fingers through the Caster’s hair, weaving the white strands over and over, “is there a reason I am not allowed to leave the room today?”

Irisviel tilted her head to beam at her, ruby eyes glittering brightly in their room’s soft light. “Yes, and if you remember, I’ll let you out.” Artoria raised a single eyebrow, and went back to braiding her hair. Beyond the fact that today was movie night, nothing important was happening. And she was almost positive nothing important was happening tomorrow either. Irisviel sighed, “You don’t have a clue, do you?”

“None whatsoever, my lady.” She murmured, and Irisviel sighed again. 

“Artoria, what am I going to do with you?” She leaned against Artoria, laying her head on the small King’s shoulders. “I guess I can’t let you out then.”

“Ah yes, a prisoner in my own quarters,” Artoria said, a trace of amusement threading through her words, “it has to happen to every king eventually.” Irisviel giggled, light and lilting, and turned the page of her travel guide, pale fingers slipping over the paper. Artoria swallowed hard, then carefully leaned her head against Irisviel’s own, as if the very movement would shatter her like ice. She was still getting used to this, affection, given so unconditionally that it almost hurt, and giving back. Allowing herself to want for herself, not just for her kingdom.

In Camelot, she had not been a good husband. It had hurt Guinevere, and it had ended up hurting Lancelot as well. But she would not repeat that mistake with Irisviel. Irisviel, who looked so fragile but faced the world with such fierce kindness that it sometimes hurt to watch. Irisviel, who had been born and raised in a cage, who’d only been released to die, yet had been so cheerful and happy despite it all. Irisviel, who knew just the words to sooth the hearts around her. Irisviel, wonderful, magical, lovely Irisviel, who had faced so much yet had managed, despite it all, to come out with only a few scars. No, Artoria would try her best to be what Irisviel needed. 

This time, she would not just choose being a king.

“Is everything alright?” Irisviel asked, her hand reaching up to cup Artoria’s own. 

Her first instinct was to say nothing, because kings did not rely on anyone else. But that was an instinct she could no longer trust. She’d been shown the consequences of standing alone. “I spoke to Mordred yesterday,” she began, soft and unsure, and Irisviel’s fingers tightened on her own. Understanding. Offering support. Arturia turned her head to bury her face in Irisviel’s white locks, “I did not say what needed to be said. I did not tell him about -” her throat locked up, her sister’s face flashing through her mind, and Guinevere, but she hadn’t been Guinevere, had she? “Morgana.” She forced the word out, let it drop from her lips like a stone through air. “I . . . you know my doubts, Irisviel, you know what burden’s I have carried. I told him I did not hate him. He told me that was ‘fucked up’. I told him I did not blame him, because I was the one to blame, and then he . . . I would not call it blowing up, because he did not take Clarent and try to smite me where I sat. But he did disagree, vehemently, with lots of yelling.” Her next words were softer, quiet in the room, “I did not expect him to disagree. I did not expect him to tell me that I was a good king.”

“Artoria,” and her name was spoken softly. Artoria could feel Irisviel’s fingers carding through her own hair, calm, soothing strokes, and her shoulders relaxed a fraction. “I never told you, did I, that the carnival was Mordred’s idea? Or at least the basis of it.” Artoria pulled back to stare at her, and she laughed, light and soothing. “Oh yes, the basis of the carnival was his idea. He doesn’t hate you, Artoria, far from it, I believe. He just gets . . . pissed off at the things you say or the actions you try to take.”

Artoria sighed, “That is hardly any better.” She paused for a few seconds, the silence laying easy between them. “I spoke to Bedi and Lance after that. They do not blame me either.” 

“No sirs?” Irisviel teased, eyes glittering.

Artoria nodded slowly, “Bedi’s idea. He believes that saying Sir imposes distance, and distance between us is what led to Camelot. He believes that getting rid of it might help things heal, Lance and I agreed. It is very hard to argue with him when he gets an idea in mind.”

“He has puppy dog eyes, Artoria,” Irisiviel said, tilting her head, her hair spilling over her shoulder, the half finished braid unravelling, “He’s been using it on you all since forever, you just never noticed.”

Artoria huffed a laugh, “I noticed. But, that talk . . . I need to try again, with Mordred. I have not been treating him fairly.” She sighed, drawing circles onto the sheets of the bed, watching the wrinkles in the fabric follow her finger. “There are many things that need to be said between us, and this time I can not let my doubts get in the way. I was hoping to speak to him today.”

Irisviel pursed her lips, laughter dancing in her eyes, “Not today. He’s busy today, Artoria, and knowing him, he’ll need a little bit to completely cool off, to figure out what to say.”

“Very well,” She sighed, leaned back slightly, “Busy with what, Irisviel?”

Irisviel giggled again, light and gentle, “With the same thing you’re forgetting, silly. Now,” she turned back to the travel guide, flipped another page, “Where should we go when the world is saved? I’m thinking England, unless you have somewhere else you want to go?” She glanced over at Artoria, eyes glinting. It was the familiar glint, the one that told Artoria she better have an idea in mind, otherwise Irisviel would know why. 

It was almost funny, how she pushed Artoria to have desires of her own. Funny and endearing and captivating. She pushed herself forwards again, flipping the catalogue back a few pages. “I would like to go to England, if only to see how my people are doing. But, this place also caught my eye.” She tapped the blooming flowers and luscious trees and the sandy beaches of Hawaii. A vacation, she’d never allowed herself to consider one in life, but now, in death . . . perhaps she should allow herself to indulge.

Irisviel gasped, “Yes, there too, most definitely.” She picked up the colleague and flopped back onto the bed, flipping through the pages, colors and images flashing by. “We should go everywhere, if possible.”

“And the places we do not go, I’m certain Georgios can be convinced to take pictures.” Artoria watched the childlike wonder in her eyes, the delighted smile curving her lips, the way her hair spread out beneath her, a wave of snow across the bedspread. Her knights, Diarmuid, Emiya, and Irisviel, each nestling in her heart and refusing to leave. She would do anything to keep them safe, that would never change. It was her duty as king to protect what she loved. It would always be her duty. 

That didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy more than it though. 

She lay back on the bed, curling onto her side, watching as Irisviel flipped through the catalogue, listening to her voice as she chattered on about the various sights and possibilities and the destinations at her fingertips. This woman that she loved with a fierceness that scared her sometimes, a warmth burning in her chest both familiar and foreign. Like her love for her country and her people. Different then her love for her country and her people. She smiled, a soft smile, one of the ones she was still relearning to use. “I love you,” she whispered, gently to the woman beside her.

Irisviel turned her head, setting her the travel guide on her chest, and reached out to twine Artoria’s fingers with her own. “I love you too. And right now,” Her eyes danced with warmth, so different then her ice and snow appearance would try to make one believe was her true nature, “I am certain that there are many in Chaldea who are working hard right now to prove how much of an impact you’ve had on their lives.”

By the time Mordred, Cu, and Achilles had finished stacking the last extraneous pieces from the entertainment room into Proto’s bedroom, there was almost no blank space left. The pool table was on his bed, flipped over, tv nestled between its legs. The storage system, which had been interlocking cubicles that spread across the walls, each containing games or movies, now lay strewn across his floor. The cue sticks were stuck awkwardly in the empty spaces, the last few remaining leaning against the walls. Cu surveyed their work with a smug grin. “I think that just about wraps this up, what do you think?”

Mordred glanced around, “I think I feel bad for Proto. I  _ know  _ I feel bad for myself when Gudako figures out what we just did.”

“Well I think,” Achilles said, “that we should make a break for it so this can’t be traced back to us.”

“Seconded.” Mordred said.

Achilles whistled, “Mark that down as the first time Mordred has agreed with me in the history of Chaldea.”

Cu rolled his eyes, “Noted, now, let’s get back. The others should have gotten everything by now.”

Cu was, to the shock of all, right. They caught Bedivere walking into the room, a table slung under his arm. He tilted his head back and gave them a smile. “I figured it would be best to have multiple tables for food and presents. I don’t think the coffee table and the three smaller ones will be adequate.” 

Mordred shrugged, “Sure. You better hope that nobody will desperately miss that table.” 

“Did you take it from Tesla’s room?” Achilles asked with a grin, “So you could put the blame on Edison?”

Bedivere gave him a flat, if faintly amused, look. “No, because that would mean even more work for Helena. Besides,” he turned back to fitting the table through the doorway, “I do not wish to start another prank war because of Artoria’s birthday.”

“Thank Lugh,” Cu said, as if in prayer, “because I never need to see Diarmuid and Nobu team up again.”

“Speaking of Nobu,” drifted Lancelot’s voice, and a pair of hands reached out and helped Bedivere navigate the table. The Saber finally made it through, and Mordred, Cu, and Achilles filed in after him, “You knew Diarmuid knew her?” There was an odd look on Lancelot’s face, something that might have been akin to fear.

“Yeah,” Achilles shrugged, “They practically won the prank war feeding off each other. Why?”

“Does that mean I should be worried about those?” He pointed at two . . .  _ cannons _ . Two small cannons sitting on two of the small round tables. Their sides gleamed gold in the light, some kind of figure etched into the metal. They were small, almost cartoonish, but they were most definitely cannons. 

Diarmuid looked up from where he was messing with the back of one of them. “Nonsense,” he said, smirking, “these are harmless. They can’t fire anything but canisters of silly string and glitter bombs.” 

Bedivere sat the table down, then lifted two boxes filled with bright scraps of cloth onto the table. “I don’t think glitter bombs count as harmless.”

“They don’t,” Achilles agreed.

Mordred snorted and hopped onto the back of the couch, balancing and swinging his legs as the conversation spiralled around him. The entertainment room, which had been large even  _ with  _ all the clutter, was made larger by the absence of it, yet it was quickly filling up again. The three round tables and their chairs, good for two person games. The coffee table and the couch. The larger table Bedivere had found and relocated. The boxes of banners and decorations, trailing colorful bits of paper and fabric onto the floor. Diarmuid’s two cannons, gleaming gently in the light as the Lancer tried to convince Lancelot and Bedivere that, yes, the cannons were necessary, and no, they could not return them. Why? Because then Nobu would be very annoyed and they would all end up being caught in a prank of some kind. 

Mordred could already see tomorrow taking shape in his mind. Father might sit in the middle of the same couch he was balancing on, Lily by her side, both staring wide eyed at the cake Irisviel and Emiya would present. He could see the tables laden with food and gifts, the people milling about them, laughing, smiling, with decorations dangling from the ceiling. The candles blown out, the cannons going off, raining glitter down onto the scene. It seemed so vivid, yet so dreamlike, something not meant for him. Would  _ never  _ be meant for him.

Well, that was just  _ another  _ thing he would have to rebel against,  _ wasn’t it? _

He hopped off the couch and picked it up, moving it around so it’s back was against the wall. He eased the coffee table closer, glanced around. “Hey, who wants to go with me to grab another table?”

Bedivere glanced at him, relief flashing in his eyes. The conversation had dissolved into Diarmuid listing all the various pranks Nobu had pulled, with Achilles occasionally throwing in his two cents and little bits of gossip he’d heard. Cu was chattering too, eagerly proclaiming how his older self had done with the prank war, about how he’d used his runes to maximum effect. Lancelot’s face was a growing mix of horror and intrigue, as if he wanted to know more but wasn’t sure if he was willing to pay the price. “Yes, Mordred,” Bedivere said, “I would be delighted to help you grab another table.”

They almost didn’t make it in time for lunch, which meant that Mordred had to scarf through his meal quickly before the remainders were wiped out. That left Cu and Achilles to bring up the subject of what Bedivere and Lancelot had been looking at. Diarmuid nodded as they recounted the tale. “It makes sense,” he said, leaning back in his chair, tapping his cheek thoughtfully, “though I do feel bad for Lancelot.”

Mordred swallowed his mouthful, “But I  _ don’t  _ get what it  _ means _ .” He said, pointing his fork at Diarmuid, “ _ Why _ would he be so worked up about it?”

Diarmuid glanced at Cu and Achilles, then sighed heavily, “Mordred, the longer you’re in Chaldea, the more you notice that certain patterns develop around certain people. Your Father, Artoria, is one of them.”

Mordred waved his arms around wildly, “ _ Stop _ being so  _ evasive  _ and  _ tell me _ what patterns!”

“Mordred,” Achilles said, “I tell you with all the delicacy I can muster, there are lots of people in Chaldea who want to fuck your Father.” 

Cu’s head hit the table. 

Diarmuid’s palm hit his forehead. 

Mordred’s jaw hit the ground, then the remains of his meal splattered against Achilles’s face. He barely registered standing up and throwing it at the Rider, and he was too shocked to even mourn the loss of a fine meal. “WHAT THE  _ HELL _ ?!  _ WHY  _ WOULD YOU EVEN SAY  _ SOMETHING  _ LIKE  _ THAT _ !”

Achilles whipped his face, his affronted expression marred by the food smeared across it. “You’re the one who asked.”

“I’ll  _ never  _ be able to get that out of my head now!” He wailed, “I think I need to get my brain  _ scrubbed _ !”

Achilles shrugged, “You asked.” Then his hand was a blur of lightning, Cu’s plate of food sailing at his head. Mordred’s instincts screamed, he jerked to the side, lightning trailing off his limbs. The plate sailed across the room and splattered against the back of someone’s else’s head, sliding down pale, washed out hair before plopping to the floor. 

Mordred had a second to realize that this was probably the reason why all the plates in Chaldea were plastic.

Then the woman was standing, her dark jacket smeared with the remains of Cu’s meal. She twisted, and Mordred caught the glimpse of a face startlingly like Father’s, with too pale skin and blazing yellow eyes. “Why you carrot topped fuckwad.” She growled, her voice rising to a screech of fury, “I’LL  _ BURN  _ YOU TO FUCKING  _ ASH _ !” She reached over, grabbed her lunch partner’s plate, then slung it at Achilles.

Achilles dodged, it spattered against someone else. The lunch partner stood, and Mordred’s breath stopped, because it was the Father-that-was-not-Father that was called Salter. “Mad dog,” she said, and her voice was all frost and fire, cold enough to burn, “you shouldn’t waste food so easily.” 

“Oh shit.” Cu breathed, then slipped under the table. Mordred decided it was best to join him.

“WHAT THE  _ HELL  _ DID YOU JUST SAY?!”

“I said, that if you are going to waste food, waste your own and keep your dirty paws off mine.”

Chaos erupted, yells and screams, and Mordred could see chairs being dragged across the ground and food splattering across the floor, plate dropping with loud crashes and bangs. “I’m going to have to have to clean all this up,” he breathed in numb horror. “I’m going to have to clean this all up tonight.”

Cu chuckled, “Maybe if you’re lucky, it will get done before your work time arrives.” Mordred glared at him and he chuckled again. “So, are you just going to hide here?”   
“Like  _ hell  _ I am, I’m going to win this!” He lurched up, flinging the table sideways through the air. It crashed against another, food raining down on the occupants. It was Beowulf, Martha, and Leonidas. He sent them all a grin, and Beowulf stood, returning the grin and cracking his knuckles together. Oh yes,  _ it  _ was  _ on _ .

Mordred ended up  _ not  _ having training after lunch, because Gudako ruled that all Servants caught in the food fight had to help clean up. Which meant practically  _ everyone  _ in the cafeteria. And after that, he was ambushed by Lily, who dragged him off to play a game of, not chess this time, but something called Battleship instead. Then, he found himself with Chiron, finishing the letter, putting it in an envelope and tucking it away beside his paper tulip. Gudako appeared then, probably alerted by Chiron, and dragged him and Beowulf to an early sentence to the cleaners, because there would be no time for it after the movie tonight. He met Fran and Proto for dinner, warned Proto about the danger’s awaiting him, finished his meal, then scattered, in search of Kotarou. The ninja had missed Mordred’s movie, he was  _ not  _ going to be allowed to miss Fran’s. He found the Assassin in the simulation room fighting skeletons, dragged him out, then retreated to the kitchens to pick up Fran’s gift. “Look,” he said as he pulled the assassin behind him, box tucked carefully in the crook of his elbow, “You missed Monty Python, and Fran promised something better than that. Which is  _ impossible _ .  _ Which  _ means you have to back me up here.”

“Ah . . . not really.” Kotarou mumbled, “Besides . . . like you said, I haven’t seen Monty Python. Ah . . . how am I to say it’s better?”

“Do you trust me?”

“Ah . . .”

Mordred shot him an affronted look and Kotarou shrugged. “ _ Scuse you, _ I'm very trustworthy.”

“Ah . . . your nickname is the Knight of Treachery.” 

Mordred sent him a glare, “ _ Rebellion _ , it’s rebellion.”

“Rebellion,” Kotarou amended, “but . . . ah . . . that does not induce trust?”

Mordred rolled his eyes, “Sheesh,  _ fine _ , sure,  _ whatever _ .” They stopped in front of the auditorium, and Mordred pushed the door open with his shoulder, careful to keep the box in his arms steady. They weren’t the first one’s here. Gudako and Da Vinci and Mash and Romani and the lion headed guy and the one named Tesla were also there. They were busy though, so Mordred corralled the ninja up to the spot he’d decided to dub as his own and sat him down in one of the chairs. He claimed his chair, the same one as last time, and immediately started spinning. “You’ll be  _ fine _ .”

Kotarou frowned at him, the expression barely visible through his curtain of hair. Still, he didn’t make a break for it, so Mordred was going to count this as a success. “Ah . . . I don’t like being near . . .” he gestured around, “large amounts of people.” He finished.

Mordred snorted, “There’s no one here yet, and  _ nobody’s  _ going to be paying attention to you. They’ll be paying attention to the movie.” 

Kotarou sighed, blowing his hair out of his face for the briefest of moments before pressing back into his seat. The doors opened, and Fran and Proto walked inside. Mordred waved his hand wildly, and Fran saw him and smiled. They began to walk over, and Mordred could mark the exact moment when Proto spotted Kotarou. It was the moment he stilled, then paled, then blushed furiously, his red eyes snapping over to glare at Mordred.  _ “You,”  _ he seethed mentally,  _ “just signed my death permit.” _

_ “Whatever,”  _ He thought back, leaping out of his seat and strutting over to meet Fran halfway to the seats. “For you,” he said, plopping the small box into her hands, “happy one week anniversary.” 

She looked down curiously, opened the lip to reveal a large cupcake, with a large swirl of pink frosting and a cherry balancing delicately on top. She glanced at him, her blue and yellow eyes wide behind her bangs. “Uh!”

He grinned at her, “I’m glad you like it,” he retreated back to his chair, began to spin, watching the world flash by. Fran, sitting in her plush throne, staring wide eyed at the cupcake, a smile on her lips. Proto, glancing at Kotarou, then glancing away, then glancing back, the blush mostly faded from his cheeks. Kotarou, curled up in his own chair, a notebook pressed against his knees, pencil scratching against the paper. He felt the grin stretch wider across his lips. A different friend group then the Chaos Crew, with different dynamics, but most definitely all his friends.

They left the auditorium in one amorphous mass, desperately trying to escape the hordes of Servants that would  _ probably  _ be after Fran’s head. Mordred knew  _ he  _ was certainly impressed with her choice of movies. “You know,” he said as they ducked down a hallway, “when you promised to choose a better movie then I did, I didn’t think you meant it would be better as in  _ worse _ .”

_ I don’t know what you’re talking about, _ Fran signed,  _ The Princess Bride is a far superior movie to Monty Python and the Holy Grail. _

“It was sweet,” Proto said, even though he hadn’t been paying attention to the movie.  _ At all _ . 

“I might have liked it better if someone wasn’t such a movie critic.” Mordred’s gaze flickered to Kotarou, and the ninja stiffened, red spreading across what was visible of his face. “ _ Seriously _ , you’re so quiet the rest of the time, but the minute something gets put on the screen, then you decide to talk?”

Kotarou made a small noise in the back of his throat and glanced around, “Ah . . . what was I supposed to do? It was bad. It was really, really bad. You don’t just throw a sword in the middle of combat! There are weapons specifically made for that! Kunai, shurikens, bolas, spears, javelins, chakram . . . swords aren’t properly balanced for that!”

“I throw my sword  _ all  _ the  _ time _ !” Mordred protested. He’d been  _ certain  _ Kotarou had seen it before, then again, the mooks they normally fought weren’t strong enough to bother. And Kotarou managed to cover long ranged enemies effectively. There was no need to.

Kotarou stared at him, eyes almost wide behind his hair. “I don’t think I can fight with you.” He said softly.

_ "Excuse me??” _

Proto coughed, and the two twisted to see Fran giggling and Proto blushing furiously. He cleared his throat, then said, “Well - I think it was nice to hear you get so passionate about something. Uh - you don’t normally, so . . .” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly, “it was nice.” He mumbled finally, glancing at Kotarou awkwardly.

“Ah . . . thank you.” Kotarou mumbled, tugging his hair over his face. He’d gone red again, and Mordred resisted the urge to face palm. 

His eyes met Fran’s and she smiled knowingly. He rolled his eyes skyward and pretended to gag. She gave him _ a look _ . “Uh,” she said, and Kotarou and Proto stopped staring at the ground to look at her instead. She signed quickly, fingers flying.  _ I still think The Princess Bride was better. It had an actual plot,  _ Mordred made an affronted sound,  _ was funny, sweet, and had plenty of action. It wasn’t just comedy for comedies sake. _

“Monty Python  _ wasn’t  _ just comedy for comedies sake!”

“Yes,” Proto interrupted, “It was.”

“It was  _ not _ !”

“It was too!”

Fran cleared her throat loudly and everyone’s eyes snapped to her.  _ Wrong opinions aside, I wanted to say thank you for the cupcake, Mordred.  _ She tilted her head, smiling softly,  _ It was very good. _

Mordred kicked the ground, suddenly embarrassed.  _ Honestly _ , it was just a cupcake. “Yeah, well, it was the Kitchen Crew who made it, you should thank them.”

_ Yes, but you were the one who asked them to make it for me. So thank you. _

“Uh, yeah, well, you know, there was  _ aH _ !” The last part came out as a surprised squeak as Fran surged forwards and lifted him into a hug, her arms wrapping around his waist, her face tucking against his neck. In his pocket, his letter and her tulip crinkled together. His feet dangled a good six inches above the floor and instinctively he grabbed her to keep himself from slipping. He froze, breath stuck in his throat.

Hugging.

They were  _ hugging _ .

He could feel his face flaming, heat searing his cheeks. He wasn’t used to . . .  _ affection _ , to  _ touching _ , and he could feel himself lock up, staring at Proto over Fran’s shoulder, panic written across his face. The Lancer wasn’t helping, he was leaning against the wall with a shit eating grin and a gleam in his eye. Kotarou was nowhere to be seen, probably having fled at the first chance. She set him down carefully, and he extracted his limbs from around her back.  _ Sorry,  _ she signed, taking a few steps back,  _ I just,  _ her hands stalled to a standstill. She sighed, shoulders slumping, and looked away.  _ Sorry.  _ She signed again.

“No,” he mumbled, a bit numbly. “Just, a warning next time. Possibly. Uh. Yeah.”

She looked at him, pick dusted over her cheeks.  _ Yeah, a warning. I’ll remember back. _

“Thank you.” Proto said suddenly, and the two jolted further apart. Proto was already zooming away, his hair trailing after him. “I think,” his voice drifted back to them, light and cheerful, “you guys just gave me my ticket to freedom!”

_ Mordred takes off his jacket and slings it across the back of his chair, plopping into his seat with a grin. Across from him, Kairi is already situated, glancing through the menu. They’ve grabbed a table outside, sunlight spilling across the white table cloth and edging the fence and the plants clinging to it. The air in Trifas is sweet, fresh and tinged only faintly with exhaust from cars. Around them, people walk down the street, smiles on their faces as their footsteps echo off the pavement. Above them, the sky is a brilliant blue, only faintly dotted with clouds.  _

_ They order, and Kairi gets a bottle of wine, and Mordred makes sure that he doesn’t order too much. He has to watch out for Kairi’s wallet after all. “And then,” Mordred says, unable to keep from cracking up, “when Bedivere and I came in with the extra tables, we found Lancelot doused in glitter! Diar had decided to show him how the cannons worked, and he wasn’t able to get out of the way in time! We spent an hour cleaning up that shit, but the look on Lancelot’s face was priceless!” _ _   
_ _ Kairi laughs his deep, booming laugh. The one that starts deep in his stomach then resonates through his chest. “I know how glitter works, he’ll be picking it out of his hair for weeks.” The waiter brings his wine. He fills the glass half full, lifting it in a toast. “To Mordred Pendragon, heir to the throne of Britain.” _

_ Mordred grins and grabs the wine bottle, tipping it in his direction. “To Sisigou Kairi, the best Master I’ve ever known.” _

_ He laughs again, “Though I hear I have competition.” _

_ Mordred takes a swig from the bottle and sets it down. “Yeah, you do.” He sighs, stares at the table, the sunlight tracing it’s path across the cloth. “This is a dream, isn’t it?” _

_ Kairi leans back in his seat, eyes hidden behind his glasses. He shrugs, the wine in his glass shifting with the movement, light glinting off the side of the glass and in the deep red color. “Yes, it is.” _

_ Mordred snorts softly, “Knew it.” He stares at the people walking by, imagining their ordinary, easy lives. Once upon a time he would have hated them, now he understands. Because Kairi made him understand. Because Gudako made him understand. A king protects his people, no matter what, and Mordred is tired of holding his hate so close to his chest, feeling the flames of his anger licking across his skin.  _

_ Somehow, in this amalgamation of his imagination and his memories, it is easy to let go.  _

_ “I miss you, you know,” he says softly to Kairi. “You were the first person who believed in me, not in my strength, not as a weapon, just me. I wish I’d been faster, been stronger, been able to keep you alive. We could have won that war together.” _

_ Kairi takes a sip of his drink, “I don’t regret it, saving you. You’re aren’t a tool, Mordred. You’re a person, and you are my friend. And who knows, you might see me again one day. You’re in a different world then this one, after all.” He holds his wine glass between his fingers, his face serious. Such a scary face, wrinkled and scarred, but the man within is softer, goofier. A good person, filled with dad jokes and bad décor ideas. “I’d given up hope,” he says softly, “of ever seeing my daughter again. Even when I stood in front of that circle and recited the words, I didn’t believe it would happen. I’m a necromancer. I sleep in tombs. I am not afraid to do whatever it takes to win. But pair me with a Knight of the Round? I thought it would go horribly. Then you appeared,” He grins, one of his half grins that hides all the laughter he kept contained inside. “You call yourself the Knight of Rebellion, history calls you the Knight of Treachery, but you, Mordred, you gave me hope. For the first time in a long time, I had hope.” _

_ Mordred closes his eyes and tilts his head back. His eyes are burning, cold wetness streaking across his cheeks. He doesn’t know if Kairi actually felt that way, or if it is how Mordred hopes he had felt, but he is going to take it. He opens his eyes, swallows hard. The waiter is approaching, heels clipping against the floor, food balanced on a tray. “You helped me too, you know.” He says as the food is set down. The waiter leaves, he stares at his plate. “You showed me that there were good in the people I hated. You helped me realize what I wanted. You gave your life for me, and that made me realize you didn’t think of me as a weapon, but as a person. I am who I am today thanks to you.” _

_ Kairi grins again. “Puzzle pieces.” _

_ Mordred makes a face. “I fucking hate puzzles.” Kairi laughs that deep laugh of his, and Mordred snorts. He twists to dig out the letter from his jacket pocket, placing it gently in the middle of the table, between their meals. It is a thick envelope, creamy, and Father’s name is written carefully onto the surface. “I wrote this for Father. We’re fighting together, we should at least get to the point where we don’t argue or try to kill each other. Well, I should, at least. It’s an apology, of sorts. A calling out as well, I guess. A question too, many, really. Chiron called it a ‘word vomit given form’. But the point is I put everything I wanted to say to Father in that letter. I hope it works.” _

_ Kairi reaches out and touches the letter. “Sometimes, Mordred, that’s all you can do. Hope. It makes a dreary future brighter, lights up the dark. It’s a beacon, and we have to follow it. You were my hope. And this is yours.” _

_ “It’s thanks to you I managed,” he grumbles, “I don’t think I could have gotten this far without our War.” _

_ He smirks faintly. “Like I said, puzzle pieces,” he lifts his glass again, the light playing off the surface and glinting off the edges of his glasses. “To us.” _

_ Mordred grins, watery and proud. He grabs the wine bottle, clinking it against Kairi’s glass. “To us.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bedivere: Lance, guess what I found!  
> Lancelot: What is it?  
> Bedivere, slams book down and flips to page. Points: Sound familiar?  
> Lancelot, looks: Oh no.
> 
> Kotarou, when all that was happening, was most definitely already back in his room, hiding under his kotatsu going, “This is why I don’t do human interaction.”
> 
> Proto ended up sleeping in Alter’s room because Alter couldn’t care less who he has a crush on.
> 
> Look at me, making silly jokes because I'm trying to distract myself from the future chapter.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as you might have noticed, no summery. I think we all know what's going to happen in this chapter. I want to thank each and every one of you who has commented and left kudos, as well as thank everyone who has read this story, whether you have been with me from the beginning, or you picked up sometime during the middle, or are reading this long after I uploaded this last chapter. The feedback for this has been phenomenal, and I can only hope that this chapter meets your expectations. Once again, thank you all so much, and I hope you enjoy this final chapter. Have a wonderful day, and Happy Thanksgiving.
> 
> As always, potential triggers, so please be careful.

Mordred woke feeling somehow better and worse about today. Kairi’s words still rung in his ears, his words about hope, about Mordred being his hope. Once upon a time, Father had been Mordred’s hope. His hope that he could be more than what Morgana wanted of him. His hope that he could be more than what he was meant to be. And then, in that one horrible instant, that hope was snuffed out. But this time, his hope  _ didn’t  _ lie just with a person, this time it lay in an object. In himself. 

And how Father would react.

He swung himself out of bed, feeling his bare feet smack against the hard floor. He was restless, jittery, nervous for today. The party. Giving Father the letter. How would she react? He didn’t know, he  _ didn’t  _ know and that terrified him. She had turned away twice, and had approached him once. He  _ needed  _ to talk to her, or at least ask. And he would. He would give that letter to her today. He  _ would _ . He was  _ Mordred Pendragon _ and he  _ was not _ afraid. He was  _ Mordred Pendragon _ and he  _ was  _ strong. He was Mordred Pendragon, and his and his father’s future would be decided today.

He paced around the room, breath fluttering in the back of his throat, hands shaking as he clenched and unclenched his fists. Leading up to today, he hadn’t been nervous. Well, maybe a bit, but it hadn’t flooded him like it was doing now. He was drowning in it, drowning, drowning,  _ drowning  _ as he paced faster and his breaths became more shallow and quick. How would she react? What would happen? Martha had said there was a chance. Father had approached him. They didn’t hate each other.  _ Why? _ Why had she rejected him?  _ Why? _ Why had she tried to take the blame? It was all spiraling around in his head, blocking the sight of his room. He  _ couldn’t  _ think,  _ couldn’t  _ breathe.

He stopped, closed his eyes, and forced a deep breath. Then another. Then another. He needed something to bleed the panic from his limbs, to burn the uncertainty and the fear away. He needed a clearer head. A fight, he needed a fight. One final fight before his world was changed forever. 

He got dressed quickly, shoved his feet into his boots and dragged his jacket on. In his pocket, papers crinkled. The letter and Fran’s tulip. It would be okay, even if this didn’t work, he had people with him who would be there for him. Who understood. They would not allow him to burn up everything in his rage.  _ He  _ would not allow himself to burn up everything in his rage. 

He walked out of his room, rushed footsteps echoing down the halls. The letter in his pocket felt like a live ember, impossible to ignore, burning a hole through his jacket. He remembered each word, branded into his skin, each painstakingly crafted word, strung together carefully with each sentence. Chiron had helped so much, giving him words when he couldn’t think of anything to express what he wanted to say, fixing his spelling and his grammar with a gentle touch that was almost  _ galling _ . How many pages had he gone through? Words scored too deep, scratched out, bunched up and thrown across the room in a fit of frustration. Too many. Enough to fill the room they were having the party in. He didn’t know where Chiron had put them all, they had to be somewhere, those marks of his failures. Of his struggles.

He stopped outside the simulation room door. He could hear fighting from within, the clash of blades, the occasionally whoosh of flames. Kotarou was in.  _ Good _ . That was good. He pushed open the door, stepped inside just in time to see Kotarou slit the throat of one of the archers, before spinning away, a knife flashing through the air to bury itself in the chest of another. They were the last two standing, and then they were gone, his knife clinking to the ground.  **“Simulation Complete~”**

Mordred sucked in a harsh breath. “Hey, Kotarou . . . is it okay if we spar? I don’t - I don’t think the simulations will work today.”

Kotarou paused in picking up the knife, head cocked to one side as he considered, his fingers pressed against the ground. He nodded once, eyes flashing behind his hair. “Hai.” Then something silver was sent Mordred’s way, shrieking through the air. Mordred fell back, his gauntlet crackling over his jacket sleeve, batting the knife away.  _ Shit _ . Was this what it was like to fight himself? No warning whatsoever? He cursed and moved, a flash of light, armor snapping into place, helm covering his head, Clarent in hand. He lunged, his sword bisecting the place where Kotarou had crouched, but the ninja was already gone.

A whisper of air, the faintest clink of a chain, then something  _ crashed  _ against his pauldron, sending cracks spreading across the surface, before being yanked back again. Mordred spun, slinging Clarent from his grip. It shot through the air in an arc of red light, lightning trailing off the blade. Then Kotarou, crouching, chain snapping back around his arm, was gone and Clarent buried itself into the wall behind where he’d been. His instincts  _ screamed _ , he jerked to the side, caught just the flash of red hair and fluttering white cloth before the long edge of the sharp bladed side of his chain weapon scraped against his chest plate. Mordred kicked up, Kotarou wasn’t there, a knife scraped the junction between helmet and gorget. Mordred’s head snapped back, lighting washing away his vision. This time impact, a crack of metal against flesh. He reached back, grabbed a handful of cloth and yanked the ninja over his head. Something came free, Mordred saw the red scarf in his hand fluttering as he threw it down against the ground, then pain flared in his leg, between cuisse and greaves. His knee buckled, and Mordred twisted again, his elbow hitting something, sending it spinning, crashing away.

He pushed himself up, lightning playing over his armor and leg, strengthening it, and turned. Across the room, Kotarou wiped blood from his lips and nose, watching him with burning eyes.  _ No _ , not burning. Achilles’ and Cu’s and Diarmuid’s eyes burned when they fought, with delight and excitement and bloodlust. This was  _ cold _ , calculating, as if Kotarou was dissecting every little movement Mordred had made and was factoring it into an equation. “You threw your sword.” He said in his business voice, cold and clipped. 

“Yeah, I did.” Mordred moved in a burst of light, yanking Clarent from the wall. “It’s like fighting a goddamned ghost with you.” There then not. Like Diamruid, like Sasaki, but somehow  _ worse _ . Those two stayed in front of him, obvious, ready, compelled by codes of chivalry and the restraints of honor. Kotarou was different, like tracking a shadow in darkness, impossible to find because it wasn’t really there. He grinned behind his helmet, flipped Clarent in his grip, felt the heft of it in his palm. “Thanks for this.”

Kotarou didn’t move, his jinburi pooled around him. He looked odd without his scarf, between that and his hair, most of his face had been covered, but now Mordred could see the shape of his chin, the set of his mouth. There was no smile, no smirk, no blood thirsty grin. Just a fixed expression, matching the coldness in his eyes. Distant. Dangerous. “I needed this too,” he said finally, his voice quiet in the silence, and for all his eyes were cold, his voice once again reminded Mordred of fire, crackling and popping and burning. “Tonight was a bad night.”

He moved, a flutter of cloth, Mordred was already yanking back, following his instincts instead of trying to watch where the Assassin was going. It would have been impossible to, Kotarou was too fast. He felt the weight of the chain snag around Clarent’s blade. He dropped the sword, grabbed the oiled links, pulled sharply. Kotarou didn’t resist, he allowed himself to go hurling forwards, knife in one hand, the sharp end of his chain in the other. Mordred swung, pivoting with his hips like Achilles had taught him. Kotarou twisted in mid air, Mordred fist slipping past his head, parting his hair. His knife and blade scraped against the armor of his gauntlet, dug into his pauldron, caught something, yanked. There was the scream of metal being pulled out of shape, Mordred brought his fist down, driving his elbow into Kotarou’s neck, the Assassin’s foot hit his knee, the one already weakened. They both went crashing to the ground, and Mordred let go of the chain, snagging Clarent, swinging. Kotarou was already gone, and this time, Mordred didn’t have the chance to get up. Links of iron wrapped around his throat, tightening,  _ tightening _ , his armor creaking against the press of the chain. Mordred coughed, gasping for breath, dropping Clarent, fingers scraping at the oiled links, lightning playing over his gorget to keep it from caving in. Kotarou pulled harder, Mordred could hear the grit of his teeth, the constant crackle of his lightning, a distant roar in his ears. He managed to get one foot under himself, surged up, snapping his head back. The crack of metal against jaw, the chain loosened, and Mordred jabbed his elbow back into Kotarou’s gut. He let go fully, stumbling back, wheezing, and Mordred stood, knee shaking as the chain dropped to the ground. He twisted, punched, one smooth move, and this time Kotaoru didn’t dodge. He took it to the center of his chest, flying back to crash against the wall.

He slumped, gasping for breath. “I yield,” it was a ragged gasp, he coughed. “Your win.”

Mordred dropped his armor and pulled his jacket off. It didn’t have any rips, and he didn’t want bloodstains on it. He folded it carefully, set it down besides Clarent and Kotarou’s chain weapon. A couple inches away, Kotarou’s knife glittered softly in the light. “ _ Shit _ ,” Mordred wheezed, falling to the ground, rubbing his throat. “Were you  _ trying  _ to kill me?” His voice was raw and rough, each movement pained.

Kotarou’s eyes widened slightly. “No! I . . . ah . . .” He rubbed his chest and sighed, “You are stronger than me, and I cannot penetrate your armor very well. Additionally, you shrug off most injuries, you shouldn’t have been able to stand after that slice to your leg, but you managed. A person’s first instinct when being strangled is not to retaliate, but to get the thing wrapped around their throat off. It seemed the best course of action to take.” He glanced away, “. . . I’m sorry.”

Mordred fell back, feeling the cold from the floor leach into his skin. “Pass me some of that healing cream and we’ll call it even.”

“Hai.” 

Something clattered near him, and he reached out, hand closing over a familiar tin. He pushed himself back up and screwed it open, the pungent smell of the ointment hitting his nose. He rubbed some on his aching throat, then smeared some more on the back of his knee. His hands came away sticky with blood. “Good thing I decided to wear shorts today.” He grumbled, “Do you have any bandages?” He closed the tin and threw it back.

Kotarou snatched it out of the air, then pulled out a first aid kit from his bag and slid it over. “There are some in there,” He mumbled, tucking the tin into the pouch again. How? No, wait, the very first Da Vinci had asked about how the ‘bags of holding’ were working. Kotarou must have one. It made sense. “Ah . . . did the fight help?”

Mordred shrugged, bandaging his wound. “A bit, yeah.” The jerky nervousness had bled away, at least. “Did it help you?”

Kotarou glanced at him, eyes flashing behind his hair. “Hai.” He said, and Mordred wondered if the Assassin knew that Mordred could tell he was lying.

He didn’t go to breakfast that morning, the idea of food made him feel sick. Instead, he headed straight towards the entertainment room. Most of the decorations had been put up, furniture arranged and rearranged. The couch was still against the wall, with the coffee table in front of it, but it was now flanked by two of the small round tables, a cannon glittering on each. Three tables lined the other walls, two for food, one for presents. The third round table had been joined by a bunch of other ones, chairs placed haphazardly around them. On one sat the box of decorations that hadn’t been put up yet, the paper streamers, the banner. 

Mordred took a deep breath, and got to work.

He tackled the streamers first, because the banner would require at least two people to put it up. 

He let the movement clear his mind from the turmoil that had not been washed away by the simulations. In his pocket, the letter was heavy, waiting, expectant. He didn’t know what to do with it, should he walk up to her and give it to her? Or leave it with the presents? No, he  _ wanted  _ to see her face when he gave it to her, he  _ needed  _ to see her face.

Perhaps it was nasty of him, perhaps it was wrong, but he needed to see her face when he gave it to her. Just to know if it had  _ some  _ possibility of working.

He finished the streamers, stepped down from his table, and looked up. It was a carpet of color, dangling down from the ceiling. How long had he been doing this for? He didn’t know, but no doubt breakfast would be over already, Bedivere, Lancelot, and the rest of the Chaos Crew would be headed this direction. He slipped out of the room, headed towards his own.

He needed to change clothes.

And he needed to get Lily’s gift.

Artoria walked forwards carefully, her hand on Lily’s shoulder. Behind them, Irisviel walked, her fingers clasped over their eyes. “Are you ready?” She asked, her voice bubbly with warmth, and Artoria could feel Lily’s eager bounce under her hand. The younger Saber was ready, Artoria was not. She was still unsure of what was happening today that marked it so great. Lily knew, that much was certain, but she’d refused to answer Artoria’s questions. And all Artoria had to go on was a flash of sadness in Lily's eyes when she’d broached the subject. “Turn right here,” Irisviel said, and Artotria and Lily dutifully turned. 

“This is the way to one of the large entertainment rooms,” Lily blurted, eagerness apparent in her voice. 

“Is it?” Artoria asked, ignoring the small swirl of apprehension in her gut. Her instincts were silent, whatever was about to happen could not be that bad. But what was about to happen? She didn’t know, she should know, according to Irisviel’s words and the look in Lily’s face, she should know. But she had forgotten. It wasn’t the first time she’d forgotten an important event, but that had become less common in Chaldea. There was no duty to distract her here. Still, the importance of today evaded her, and she could only hope that she would remember before the surprise was sprung.   


Mordred burst into the room, Lily’s gift held close to his chest. It was already full of people, milling about with smiles and laughter. Emiya was setting platters of food on one of the tables with Cu’s help, the other had already been covered with silver plates. The third table was already halfway full of presents, and Mordred pushed his way through the throng towards it. He set the present down, smoothing out the wrinkles in the paper. Around him, conversation swirled. He could hear Diarmuid and Bedivere chatting softly, somewhere else, Lancelot spoke to Mash. Gudako, no Gudao, was investigating the cannons, while in the corner, Da Vinci spoke to a nervous Romani. And there were more, people he didn’t know and couldn’t name. Yet, somehow, the scene wasn’t complete, and it wasn’t the lack of Father’s and Lily’s and Irisviel’s presence. 

No.

Tristan should have been here.

Gawain should have been here.

Gareth should have been here.

Kay should have been here.

But they  _ weren’t _ , and instead it was  _ Mordred  _ standing by Lily’s present. It was  _ Mordred  _ with the letter in his pocket, the contents weighing heavily in his mind. It was  _ Mordred _ , Knight of Rebellion, Father’s killer, Camelot’s destroyer, standing there in front of a table filled with presents for King Arthur hoping he could make amends. 

What was he  _ doing _ ? How  _ stupid  _ was this? Things had to change, but . . . could they really? Was there any hope, any  _ true  _ hope? He’d hoped once before, and had been cast into the dark, had lost everything to the fire he had started to give himself light. If this didn’t work . . . if this  _ didn’t  _ work . . . his next breath was sucked though his teeth, sharp and too short. (Father’s face, turning away, walking away from him. Just look, please look. Why?  _ Why? WHY? _ ) The next was a gasp, cold air rushing against the back of his throat, panic lighting his insides alight. (Camlann, Father’s shadowed face, a hill of bodies and swords, a blood red sky.  _ Why  _ was it so hard to look?  _ Why  _ was it so hard? Please, he needed something more than the apathy, he’d even take  _ hatred  _ over this.) He wasn’t worthy, Morgana’s weapon, Father’s bastard, the Knight of Tre -

No.

_ No _ .

He was  _ Mordred  _ fucking  _ Pendragon  _ and he was  _ not  _ the Knight of Treachery. He was  _ Mordred  _ fucking  _ Pendragon  _ and he was the  _ Knight  _ of  _ Rebellion _ . He took a deep breath, and another, and another. He  _ had  _ to remember that Father had approached him, had spoken to him, even though her views on her reign had been messed up. He  _ had  _ to remember Kairi, and Gudao, and Mash, and Fran, and Achilles, and Cu, and Diarmuid, and Proto, and Kotarou, and Irisviel, and Lily. He had friends, a family here. He had to remember that no matter what happened today, he would still survive. He  _ was not  _ alone.

He turned from the table and pushed through the crowd, squirming around to where Achilles leaned against the wall by the door, watching the press of people with a bored look on his face. Mordred was ejected before him, gasping for breath, before straightening and adjusting his jacket. His hand flitted down to touch the letter, then he sighed and let his hands drop to his sides, fingers scraping against the fabric of his jeans. “Hey, Achilles.”

Achilles blinked sharply, then glanced down at him, “Oh, hey, you need anything?”

“I was just wondering if you were staying.”

He shrugged and rubbed his hair, “I was thinking of leaving, actually. Artoria means more to you all then to me.” He flashed a grin, quick as lighting, “There isn’t really a reason for me to stay, ya know?”

Mordred nodded sharply, fists clenching at his sides. “I’m going to talk to her today.” He blurted out, the words rushing past his lips, into the air. No taking it back now. He  _ wouldn’t  _ take it back. He was Mordred Pendragon and he  _ didn’t  _ run from things. “But I’m not sure how it’s going to go.”

Achilles pushed off the wall and set his hand on Mordred shoulder, “Yeah, I get it. If you need to duke it out or whatever, call me and we’ll meet in the training rooms for a spar.” He grinned again, and this time it lingered. “You’re Chaos Crew now, and we stick together,” he held out a fist. “Got it?”

Mordred grinned, just a shade smaller than his usual challenging grin. “Got it.” He tapped his fist against Achilles, and then with a pat on his shoulder, the Rider disappeared. There, back up plans in place.  _ This time _ , he would not blow up if things went wrong. He turned around, stared into the crowd, and caught Diarmuid’s eyes. The Lancer waved, and Mordred’s grin widened just a bit as he started forwards to his friend’s side.

They stopped, and Artoria could feel Irisviel’s suppressed laughter. She removed her cold fingers from her face, and Artoria blinked at the influx of light. A door, they were standing in front of a door. Behind it, the brief muffle of speech could be heard, rising and falling. She blinked, “A party?”

“Shouldn’t Salter be here?” Lily asked, a smile on her face.

“We tried,” Irisviel shrugged, “But she refused. I do believe Jalter had something planned for her anyway, although good luck getting her to admit it.”

“So Salter was supposed to be in this mess as well.” Artoria mused, “What about the Lion King?”

“She declined as well,” Irisviel's smile faltered, but then it brightened again, wide and delighted. “Well, open the door, Artoria.”

“Of course, my lady,” Artoria murmured, and she reached over to push the door open. It swung without resistance, and she was met with a loud cheer, a chorus of yells. 

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY ARTORIA!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY LILY!”

For a second, Artoria stood there stunned, reeling at the sight. Diarmuid and Bedivere and Lancelot. Cu and Emiya. Sasaki and Medea and Medusa and Parvati. Gudao and Mash. Da Vinci and Romani. And Mordred, whose face could be seen through the crowd of Servants and people. Artoria could feel her world tip under her, disbelief and blooming delight burning in her chest. Distantly, she heard Lily squeal in delight, her happy ‘thank you’ echoing through the air. Her birthday. Today was her birthday. And she had forgotten. And now she was here, in front of a crowd who had remembered and put this together for her. 

A king's birthday should have been a celebration, but Artoria had never made it so. A celebration wasted too many supplies that could be put to better purposes, so she had never had one for herself. How long had it been since she had celebrated her birthday? She didn’t know. No wonder she had forgotten. “Oh.” She breathed, the small word caught on her lips, hanging in the air beneath the cheer.

Irisviel pressed against her side, looping an arm around her waist and pressing a kiss to her temple. “Happy Birthday, Artoria.” And then she ushered the small king and Lily into the room.

Mordred watched as Father and Lily were corralled to the couch, pushed down onto the seats. Lily was beaming, something bright and delighted and happy, and Mordred could feel the answering grin spread across his face. Father, however, was a sight, the expression on her features for once easy to read. Eyes blown wide in shock, her mouth parted slightly, a hesitant smile replacing the surprise. “You all, this is unnecessary.”

Gudao stepped up, a grin stretching his features. “Nonsense, Artoria. Complete and utter nonsense.” He grinned, “Unfortunately, we cannot unleash you two on the all you can eat buffet quite yet,” and Mordred watching with amusement as both Father’s and Lily’s eyes snapped to the tables laden with food, “and there is a good reason for this.” He closed his eyes, opened them again and grinned even wider, “You have given so much to us all, allow us to give something back to you. I now hand us off to Medea.”

He bowed, and a pointed eared woman with pale purple hair took his place. She smiled thinly, “First of all, I would like to say that you have to wear my present at least once, Artoria. I do believe you will look absolutely divine in it, and Irisviel agrees.” Irisviel, who sat on the sofa armrest next to Artoria, giggled. “Second off, I would like to say that we tried to get Anderson to announce for us, but he simply wouldn’t comply. Finally,” she clasped her hands together, “I would like to say this. You, Artoria, and you, Lily, have impacted many of our lives, whether it be in a War or here in Chaldea. I know for our own Wars, we did not get along, and I am happy to have cleared some of that up, but there are many others attending who are thankful for what you have done. We start with the soonest, our Master, Gudao!”

Whoops and cheers, and Artoria watched in numb shock as Medea faded back and Gudao took the stage again. He grinned, eyes flashing. “Yes, you two do have to live through our speeches before you can get at the food. Call it consolation, if you will. Well, here I go.” He closed his eyes, turned to her, opened them again. “Artoria, you answered my summons almost immediately after Fuyuki. You were imperative in Orleans, and in Oceanus, you nearly died to keep us safe. I want to thank you for giving me, a horrible mangus and a new Master, a chance. Thank you for following my commands and helping me grow as a Master and a person. Thank you for it all.” He turned to Lily, “And thank you, Lily, for answering our call after London, so soon after how overpowered we were sunk in. If Chaldea is a living organism, then you are one of the hearts that pumps blood through our veins. So thank you, thank you both, and I wish you Happy Birthday.”

Artoria sat there numbly, Irisviel’s hand cool on her shoulder. Steadying. A dream, she was in a dream. This couldn’t be real. Could it? But it had to be, it felt all too real. “Gudao,” she managed, the words numb on her lips, “you are an excellent Master. You should never have doubted yourself.” 

Lily’s face was buried in her hands, “You’re too kind! Really! Thank you!”

Scattered laughs, then Gudao was dragged back into the crowd by Mash and Parvati took his place. “Artoria,” she said, her voice smooth, “I do not know you personally, but like Rider, my host has many fond memories of you. I would like to thank you, for her sake. Happy Birthday.”

“Of course,” more numb words, “I - thank you.”

She beamed, and then slipped back to Medusa’s side. Sasaki stepped out of the crowd, a smile on his lips. “Little lion, who tricked me into believing you were simply another sparrow for my blade to cut in half, I thank you for our duels in our War, and the duels you have allowed a selfish man like me to claim here. It has been lovely to watch you flourish in these halls. I wish you, and you Lily, a Happy Birthday.” He bowed, then slipped back into the crowd, a smile on his lips.

Emiya was thrust out of the crowd before Artoria could say anything, and he sighed heavily, running his hands over his hair, flour streaking across his arms. “Artoria, Lily, I would like you two to know you make my life, and the life of everyone in the Kitchen Crew, a living hell.” There was scattered laughter, and he sighed. “But it’s worth it for all you do for Chaldea. For what you’ve done for me.” He glared at the ground, “You know about, everything. I won’t, I can’t thank you for stopping me. But I can thank you for standing by my side now. For giving this half assed Master a chance -”

“And!” Cu burst in, draping an arm around Emiya’s shoulder, “For keeping him alive as long as you did.” He grinned, wide and bright, “Lugh knows if it wasn’t for you, the man I love wouldn’t be here today.”

Emiya tilted his head back and groaned loudly, pinching his nose. Lilly burst into giggles, and Artoria managed a breathless laugh, shaking her head at their shenanigans. “As I was saying,” Emiya gritted out, “Thank you, and Happy Birthday. To you both.”

“Happy Birthday!” Cu sang, and Emiya growled, dragging him back into the throng of people.

Diarmuid stepped out next, amusement glittering in his eyes, “Well,” he said, “I doubt I can beat the sure ridiculousness of that statement. But I would like to say that I am very glad we are friends, King of Knights. In our war, your chivalry was a burning light in an unholy mess, and though I am not proud of my last moments, I treasure our fights.” He smiled, “I am delighted to find ourselves on the same side this time around. Happy Birthday.” He turned. “And Happy Birthday to you too, Lily. If only because your contributions to the prank war cannot be ignored.”

There was a beat.

Then Lily gasped, “Diar! I thought I told you to keep that a secret!”

“I did.” He said, placing his hand over his heart, “But I took the fall for you Lily! Do you know the horrors that came out of the Gilgamesh prank?”

Lily buried her face in her hands as everyone stared at her, “I was just saying!” She wailed, “You didn’t have to take the idea and roll with it!”

“I’m fae, what did you expect me to do, leave it alone?”

Everyone burst out laughing, and Artoria could feel her own shoulders shaking, a bubbling, unfamiliar sound spiraling past her lips. She managed to gain control, opened her mouth to say something, then Irisviel hopped off the couch. “You got your turn! Mine.” She shooed the Lancer back into the crowd, and spun around, her white hair flashing with the movement, her ruby eyes glittering brightly. “Artoria, my love. There were many things I expected when I stood in front of that summoning circle that day, and you were not one of them. I am the Holy Grail, the vessel for it. My whole purpose in that war was to die. But you, you made me want to live, Artoria. You swore yourself to me, you promised to keep me safe, not for a moment until it was no longer convenient, but for as long as you could manage. I can’t tell you in words how much that meant to me.” She smiled, soft and warm, and Artoria didn’t even try to stop the return smile blossoming on her lips. “I love you, Artoria, and I wish you the best of birthdays.” 

“Oh, Irisviel,” Artoria breathed, soft and gentle, and Irisviel’s smile widened before she turned to Lily.

“And you, Lily, the first, unexpected side of Artoria. So pure, so happy, trying your best for everyone around you, apparently feeding troublemakers with prank ideas,” more laughter, “I wish you the best of birthdays as well.”

“It is!” Lily said, beaming, “It really is.”

Irisviel laughed, “I’m glad,” then she walked back over and sat by Artoria’s side, pressing a kiss against her hair. “Happy Birthday.” Then she pulled back, “Next!”

Someone was shoved through the crowd, Lancelot, furiously rubbing his hair as something that glittered fell from it. He caught Artoria’s eye, coughed, then straightened, pushing his hair back from his face. “My king,” he sighed, closed his eyes, “Artoria,” he corrected. “I know that you do not want another apology for our War, so I will not give it to you. So I will give you this. You were the best of kings. Truly, the best any knight could hope for.” He smiled, “I am thankful for my chance to serve by your side. And Lily, thank you, thank you for showing us what Artoria was like before her kingship changed her. Thank you for reaching out to some of us too shattered to do it ourselves. Happy birthday to you both.” He slipped back into the crowd and shoved Bedivere out.

Bedivere laughed, bright and happy. “Artoria,” he said, “of the Knights of the Round Table, I was always your weakest. I was not as skilled as Lancelot. I was not as tough as Gawain. I was not as strong as Mordred. I was not as talented as Tristan. I was not as smart as Kay. I was not as exuberant as Gareth. I was not as useful as Agravain. But you still relied on me, for reasons that I do not know.” He smiled, “Thank you, Artoria, for giving me that chance. Thank you, for so much. You were truly the best King anyone could have hoped for. Happy Birthday.” He turned to Lily, “And Happy Birthday to you as well, young King of Knights. I am delighted to see where you will go.”

Silence, pounding, and Artoria had to swallow hard. Her eyes were burning, her throat locked up. She was . . . happy. Happy. So very happy, as if she could burst. A different type of happiness then the one Irisviel infused in her, one that she had been lacking in Camelot. The happiness from Camelot had been a shadow of this feeling infusing her now.

She opened her mouth to speak, to say something, to thank them, and the words died in her throat as Mordred shoved his way through the crowd, standing by Bedivere’s side, eyes burning as he gazed at them.

_ Happy _ . Father was  _ happy _ , and Lily was  _ happy _ , and everyone was laughing and cheering and had smiles on their faces and all Mordred could feel were  _ words _ .  _ Words  _ pushing up in his throat,  _ words  _ pressing against his teeth, trying to rip their way out.  _ Similar  _ to what he had in his letter. The  _ same  _ as what he had in his letter.  _ Different  _ from what he had in his letter. They refused to stay silent, demanded to be shouted, and forced him to fight his way to Bedivere’s side. 

Father was watching him, the happiness frozen on her face, waiting for . . . what? Shouting, cursing, yelling.  _ Something _ . Hadn’t he blown up the last time they spoke after all? What good things could he possibly say to her now? The truth for one. And he had much to say about Lily, who watched him with a barely suppressed smile and knowing eyes. 

He sucked in a deep breath, and in amongst this cheer, the shades of Camelot and Camlann refused to show their faces. Except for the few good parts, the occasions where Gawain was bearable. The moments where Lancelot was almost funny. The times where Bedivere’s niceness wasn’t galling. The few occasions where he accepted Gareth’s offer to hang out. The few moments where Kay actually said something clever. The few times where they united against Agravain. Camelot had fallen into ruin with his anger, and he’d never been as close to them as he was with the Chaos Crew and the other friends he’d made here, but it did have it’s good parts.

“Father,” he started, “I wanted to tell you,” he swallowed, then allowed the words to push past his lips, “that you were the  _ best  _ fucking king Britain had ever seen, and would ever see, no matter what  _ asshole  _ tries to tell you otherwise. I wanted to say that the years I spent in Camelot, those years as your knight, where the  _ best  _ fucking years in my life and I  _ wouldn’t  _ trade them for the  _ world _ .” Her jerked his gaze away from her face, afraid of what he would see. But no. He was Mordred Pendragon, and he  _ wasn’t  _ scared of anything. So he jerked his gaze back to stare her in her wide, surprised eyes. “Happy Birthday Father.” Then he twisted to Lily, “And thank you, Lily, thank you for so much.” For helping him hope again. For showing him that there was a chance. “Thank you for dragging me into the goddamned  _ hell  _ that is chess just because you wanted a fucking opponent who wouldn’t go easy on you! And thank you for introducing me to the  _ much better _ game that is Battleship! And thank you for telling me your luck stat so I know to  _ never  _ play any card game with you.  _ Ever! _ ” She burst into giggles and he grinned widely, “Thank you.” For so much more, but she knew what for, she’d probably figured it out from the start. “And Happy Birthday to you! Now lets eat some food before some of us  _ die  _ of  _ starvation _ !” And this time, the laughter spread throughout the room, and he rolled his eyes. He hadn’t had breakfast, he was  _ allowed  _ to say things like that. 

Bedivere beamed at him, reaching out to give his shoulder a squeeze. Mordred sent him a grin, then pulled back into the crowd, only for Diarmuid to loop and arm around his shoulders, his voice dipping low as both Fathers rushed to the table. “Birthday people first,” he said lightly, “Don’t worry, there will be seconds.” His voice dipped lower, “Good job.” 

Mordred shrugged, pushing out of his grip, “Yeah, well . . . thanks.”

Diarmuid smiled, “You didn’t let me finish. Good job, and I wish you the best of luck, Mordred.”

When Mordred managed to fight his way to the food dishes, he discovered that most of the food on one table had been cleaned out. Father and Lily walked away with two plates heaped full of food, but for all they ate, there were two tables for a reason. Mordred lunged towards the mostly full table, snatched up a plate, elbowed Cu in the side, stepped on Lancelot’s foot, and started to scoop heaping piles of food onto his plate.

The food was achingly familiar, something that wouldn’t have been out of place during a feast in Camelot. Albeit, much better cooked with items that weren’t so drenched in spices to hide the rot. And,  _ even better _ , untouched by Gawain’s kitchen curse or Bedivere’s weird ideas of what food could possibly be. 

Not that the wyvern hadn’t been overly bad, but it had still been a little bit reptilian for Mordred’s taste.

“Calm down everyone,” Emiya growled out, low above the clamor for food, “There is more on it’s way!”

“There is?” Father asked, mouth half full, eyes shining, and Mordred took a second to stare at her. With food in front of her, any trace of decorum that was left had been dropped in favor of eating as fast as humanly possible.  _ Faster _ . Mordred grinned crookedly, shaking his head. 

Diarmuid had been right, Father was a foodie. What an odd thing to notice, something else that connected them, less obvious then the same shade of hair or the same color of eyes. Somehow, that little bit of knowledge eased the worry that still gnawed on his insides. It had lessened, somewhat, with the speech that had burst from his lips and Father’s stunned reaction. And he was hoping that he could distract himself fully with a fine meal.

There was that word again, hope. 

He smirked down at his laden tray, and went to grab a seat, then attacked his meal. The laughter had petered out, not completely, bursts still broke through the quiet chatter. Diarmuid sat in front of him, began to eat his meal at a more stately pace. The pointy eared woman, Medea, had disappeared, and so had Sasaki. At the table past Diarmuid, Cu and Emiya sat down, chairs pulled together and tilted to where Father and Lily attacked their respective piles of food. To his right, Lancelot and Bedivere sat. On the couch, Irisviel lounged, pressed against Father’s side. Gudao and Mash were beyond Emiya and Cu, and had grabbed a table with four chairs so Da Vinci and Romani could sit with them. To the side of them, the last two women, Mordred didn’t know their names, sat. It was a heartwarming scene, and Mordred snorted slightly.

“Something amusing?” Diarmuid asked, eyes flashing.

“Just thinking,” Mordred said, leaning back in his seat and forcing himself to slow down in his eating. “That if this was Camelot, half the food would be burnt because Gawain would have worked his way into the kitchens again, and the other half would be weird things that couldn’t possibly be considered edible by  _ anyone's  _ standards.”

“Mordred,” Bedivere said, “Nutritionally, a strange creature's meat is no different than any other meat!”

“You ate a  _ spider _ ,” Mordred protested, “In front of us! We  _ all  _ saw it!”

“That is true,” Lancelot mused. 

“In certain parts of South America, spiders are considered a delicacy.” Bedivere argued.

“WE  _ WERE  _ IN  _ ENGLAND _ !”

“Hey,” Gudao called, leaning back in his seat, “remember the wyvern?”

“I remember the gazer better,” Mash said, looking a bit sick.

“I remember,” Emiya started crossing his arms and closing his eyes, “when Bedivere came into the kitchens with a whole Arm of Dawn tossed over his shoulder. Just set it on the counter with a smile and said, ‘this should be fine to eat’.” He opened one eye and leveled a glare at Bedivere, who had begun to shrink back into his seat.

Mordred poked the meat on his plate skeptically. “Is this Arm of Dawn? Would that be considered cannibalism? They are hands . . .”

Cu raised his arm, “I motion that Bedivere be made an honorary member of the Chaos Crew purely for his eating habits. Do I get an affirmative?”

“Affirmative.” Mordred said immediately, and Bedivere jerked up as if startled, red flashing over his cheeks.

“Seconded,” Lancelot said. 

Bedivere twisted his head around to stare at Lancelot, “I expected Mordred, but you too?”

Lancelot just levelled a glare at him, and Bedivere’s shoulders slumped. Diarmuid smirked, “I’ll add another affirmative to the mix, goodness knows we need some decently respectable people to balance out all the hooligans.” 

_ “HEY!” _

Someone laughed, sharp and bright, stuttering and unexpected, and Mordred’s head jerked at the sound. Lily had collapsed back into her couch, her small form shaken by giggles. But it was Father who had laughed, a breathless, true, real laugh. A bit shaky, as if she wasn’t used to it, but still loud and undeniable. She trailed off, a half smile caught on her face, shaking her head. “Bedi,” she said, her voice still rough with her laughter, “Only you would take my words as proof to continue your bad habits of trying anything just in case it tastes good.”

“Even you?” He asked, his eyes very wide. Then he sighed, a long, heavy sound. “Very well, if you stand by it, then it must be true. Cu, I reluctantly accept your invitation to the Chaos Crew.”

“If we’re putting out applications,” Mordred said thoughtfully after swallowing two more mouthfuls of his delicious meal, “Then I nominate Lily.”

Lily yelped, “Me? Why me?”

“I second that motion,” Diarmuid said calmly.

Mordred pointed his fork at Lily. “One word. Chess.  _ Goddamned _ , fucking,  _ chess _ .”

“That was four words,” Bedivere said softly.

Lily gasped, as if affronted, placing her hand on her chest. “Mordred, you wound me. I thought you like playing chess with me.”

“It’s  _ something _ !” He burst out, waving his arms around, “ _ Two hours _ for one shitty game where we still end up tying! It’s  _ stupid _ ! That’s what it is!”

“Chess isn’t a battle Mordred, you can’t rely on your instincts.”

“ _ Really? _ ! It’s been working well so far!”

“What were your words? Two fucking hours? That’s a bit extraneous don’t you think?”

For a few seconds, silence lay heavily after her words, then, someone, in a semi awed tone, said, “Did Lily just swear?”

Lily froze, her eyes widening, her hands reaching out to cover her mouth. Lancelot’s eyebrow twitched. “Mordred,” he growled, “I told you not to swear around Lily.”

“I’ve only been playing chess with her for  _ four  _ days! You  _ can’t  _ blame her swearing on me!”

“Oh, I bet I could give it a good go!”

“BRING IT!”

“I just might.”

“Wait! You two, it was just a slip of the tongue! I was just trying to emulate Mordred’s speech patterns! I really didn’t mean it!”

Artoria shook her head as the conversation dissolved into chaos. Irisviel leaned against her side, “Enjoying yourself?”

She glanced to where Mordred and Lancelot were yelling at each other, to where Lily had shot up to stand between them. Bedivere had slumped back in his seat, hands covering his face. Diarmuid had leaned back in his own seat, a smirk on his lips as his eyes flicked between the two knights and the young king. Emiya was shaking his head slightly, an amused grin decorating his lips, and Cu had managed to toss his arm around the Archer’s shoulders and probably had managed to worm his legs onto Emiya’s lap as well. Gudao was watching the interaction with calm eyes, obviously having decided that it probably wasn’t going to go anywhere and therefore didn’t need his intervention. Mash was giggling into her hand, while Da Vinci grinned and Romani leaned forwards with his head in his palms. Medusa and Parvati glanced at Artoria, and flashed smiles in her direction.

Artoria finished her last bite of food, then grabbed Lily’s abandoned plate. Normally, she would never do such a thing. But it was her birthday, and Lily didn’t seem like she was going to be able to get back to it any time soon. She turned to Irisviel, the smile still touching her lips. “Yes, I do believe I am.”   
  


Somehow, the food was finished off without blood being spilled. The cake had been dicey, a large thing that had almost taken up the whole coffee table, with blue and white decorations and a picture of Camelot drawn in frosting on the surface. Lily and Father got most of it, despite Mordred’s desperate attempts. A birthday, a birthday cake, presents. He was going to have to remember his birthday soon so he could have one of these. It was turning out  _ much better  _ than expected. Now, the large platter the cake had been set upon was being put away, and Father was carefully wiping her mouth with her napkin while Lily copied her. The younger Saber’s eyes were locked on the third table by the wall, the one laden with gifts of all sizes. 

It was indeed time for presents, and all the nervousness and fear that had been washed away was building up again full force in the back of his throat. Beneath the table, his hands shook. He fisted them, feeling his fingernails press against the skin. Not hard enough to break, but hard enough to force the shakes away. He had to remember to breathe. He  _ had  _ to remember to  _ breathe _ . 

Gudao stood by the table, a grin on his face, mouth moving, but Mordred couldn’t hear the words. His blood was rushing through his ears, loud,  _ too  _ loud, each breath rattling in the back of his throat. Gudao grabbed two boxes, and Father moved, but Irisviel grabbed her shoulder and Diarmuid stood and went to help Gudao, and Mordred just sat there and shook. He should help, he  _ should _ . He was Gudao’s knight. But he didn’t, just watched as the gifts were separated between Lily and Father.

A chair scraped beside him, and Mordred glanced to the side to see Cu sitting down next to him. The Lancer tipped his seat back, his feet resting on the table,  _ “You good?”  _ It was asked mentally, and Cu sent him a questioning grin. 

Mordred swallowed, but didn’t grin back. He wasn’t sure he could.  _ “I’ve got a letter for Father,”  _ he thought back, and almost winced at how scared he sounded, the bravery and bravado stripped back to the bones.  _ “I’m going to give it to her after all this is done. I’m just . . . nervous.”  _ Terrified. He was  _ terrified _ , the fear sluicing through his body, cold as ice. He wanted his anger back, the warmth of it, but it had fled, leaving him devoid and numb.

Cu slugged him in the shoulder lightly, a playful tap, and Mordred glanced at him.  _ “You’ll be okay, you hear me? No matter what, you’ll be okay.” _

Mordred snarled faintly at him,  _ “I know that, but -”  _ His words fell through, and his shoulders stiffened. Would he really be okay? Yes, he had people to fall back on, but would he really be okay? No, he wouldn’t. Some part of him would always be rough and raw and jagged and broken. Sharp enough to cut, sharp enough to draw blood. His anger would  _ always  _ be there, he  _ could not  _ escape it. He  _ wasn’t  _ trying to escape it, he ju- 

“MORDRED!” His head jerked up to stare at Lily, who was grinning at him with wide eyes. In her lap was the present he’d managed to scrounge out of Kotarou’s stuff. A music box, sides worn from the fingers of unknown children, the figure on top, a horse, covered in a layer of scratched paint, chipped and beaten. Kotarou had found it in Fuyuki, apparently, miraculously untouched by fire. “Thank you!” It was a squealed thing, her eyes bright, her fingers carefully touching the surface of the box. “Thank you so much!”

He cracked a grin, “Yeah, well, you should really thank Kotarou, but . . . you’re welcome.” It was such a small thing, her liking his gift, it really shouldn’t have made a difference. But somehow, the knot in Mordred’s chest eased. Even if things went sideways with Father, he was on good terms with Lily. She  _ wasn’t  _ Father, not really, but she was the  _ closest  _ thing he had at that moment.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and straightened. Across from him, Diarmuid sat down, his eyes fixed on Mordred. He nodded once, then turned to watch Father and Lily open their gifts. Beside him, Cu kept sitting silently, just there in case he was needed. And in the training rooms, Achilles waited, just in case things did go sideways. 

It would be alright, it would  _ have  _ to be alright.

BANG! Artoria jumped to her feet, armor coalescing, Excalibur falling into her palms. Lily was not so fast, stumbling to her feet, eyes wide as glitter spat from the two smoking cannons. The two cannons, which, apparently, had not just been there for decoration. She’d just finished opening the last of the gifts, a painting of her and Irisviel from Da Vinci, although she had no recollection of sitting for such a painting or getting her photograph taken, and now glitter was falling all over the couch and Irisviel and Artoria and Lily, and whatever wrappers or presents lain in the vicinity, which was most of them. “And that,” Diarmuid said, “Was Nobu’s birthday gift, you’re welcome.”

Da Vinci made an affronted noise, “My painting!”

“I’m sorry Artoria,” Lancelot said, “We knew, but we were convinced to keep our silence.”

“I think the glitter in Lancelot’s hair should have been a dead give away.” Mordred said dryly and Bedivere made a small noise that might have been a laugh. 

Artoria sighed, a smile still caught on her lips, and set the painting down carefully. “Thank you, Da Vinci, it is lovely.” She dismissed her armor and Excalibur, then brushed at the glitter that was caught in her hair. It stuck to her palms, refusing to be removed.

Da Vinci waved her fingers, “No problem, it was a welcome distraction from other things. Speaking of other things, I do have to go. You too, director~” She grabbed Romani by the scruff of his shirt, then pulled the protesting doctor to his feet and out the door. Parvati and Medusa had already left a bit ago. Gudao had been called away as well, something about Salter and Jalter attempting to murder each other in the halls. Mash had gone with him, just in case her shield was needed. Now, it was just her, her knights, the Chaos Crew, Emiya, Lily, and Irisviel.

She looked down at her palms, rubbed at the glitter stuck to her skin. “I would like to thank you all for putting this together. It was . . . unnecessary, but thank you.”

“You deserve this,” Irisviel said, “You both do.” Her eyes flicked to Lily, who sat enraptured by Mordred’s gift, fingers trailing over the cracks and chips, winding up the key and listening to the broken melody play. Artoria hadn’t been expecting that, nor had she been expecting Mordred to attend. Or his speech. He had changed, had really changed. 

“Yeah, well,” Mordred jumped out of his seat, wading through the tables in their direction, “Days not over yet.” He stopped for a second in front of the coffee table, and the world seemed to freeze, to suck in it’s breath, waiting. Then Mordred took a deep breath and dug into his jacket pocket, pulling out an envelope, holding it between his fingers. He stared at Artoria, searching for something, before sighing and tossing it on the table. It landed amongst the glitter and wrappers and gifts, a plain envelope with Father written in shaky script. “You don’t have to open it now, or ever if you don’t want to. But it’s yours.” He looked away rubbing the back of his head. “Yeah. Bye. Bye Lily, I’ll see you later.” Then in a blaze of red light, he was gone, and the world remembered to breathe again.

Artoria’s gaze drifted back down to the letter. Somewhere in the distance, Irisviel and Lily and Diarmuid and Cu and Emiya and Bedivere and Lancelot had begun speaking again. She wasn’t listening. Her hand drifted out, catching the edge of the envelope. It was thick and creamy beneath her fingertips, good parchment, expensive. She pulled it into her hands, sat down carefully, heedless of the glitter that attached itself to her skirt and leggings as she did so. Carefully, she opened the envelope, pulling out the contents.

Mordred’s handwriting was shaky, she’d seen it before, but somehow it was different than it had been. Each line, each curve, scored dark against the witness of the paper. Bold. Impossible to ignore. She closed her eyes, listened to her instincts. Nothing. Nothing but a faint hum at the edge of her mind. Very well. She opened her eyes and began to read.

_ Dear Father, _

_ I don’t hate you. I think that’s the first thing you need to know. I don’t hate you. Angry, yes. And I did hate you for a bit. After you rejected me as your son, I hated you. But I understand more now, I know better. I hated you, but I never really hated you, if that makes sense. What I really wanted was washed away in my anger. But I don’t hate you. _

_ I’m sorry. I’m sorry, for Camlann. I know now that I shouldn’t have let my anger control me that night, but I let it. I regret that, even though it’s pretty cool, if you think about it. I was nine and I destroyed a kingdom, that’s not something anyone could lay claim to. So yes, I’m sorry for what I did, to you, to Camelot. But I am also proud that I was strong enough to do it, proud that I had that ability, that power. And perhaps that’s a reason why I hated your words. _

_ You tried to take the blame for something you didn’t do, and if I may speak frankly, Father, that’s bullshit. The fall of Camelot was not the cause of one person alone, we all played our parts. Let us take the blame for our own accomplishments, our own mistakes, not you. You were a good king, the best of kings, and I am proud to have served by your side for the three measly years I did. Because you gave me a chance no one had ever given me before. _

_ The first time I saw you, I was three. Morgana was shaping me into a weapon, she wanted me to be a knight, to aim for the throne, although I didn’t know why at that point. I knew she was angry. And I knew that you and your knights were nothing like anything I’d seen before. Strong. Perfect. Beautiful. Wonderful. I wanted to be a part of that, I wanted to serve you. Not because of Morgana, but for myself. _

_ You, that dream, gave me the strength to take what she taught me and make it my own. And that is what I am truly regretful for, because I lost that. That night, when you rejected me, I lost myself, and I became what she wanted. A tool, a weapon, an instrument of revenge. I am sorry that I lost myself to my rage, I am sorry that I destroyed Camelot, although I do draw some pride from my ability to do so. Above all, I am sorry that I gave in and stopped listening to what I wanted. _

_ What I wanted wasn’t just your kingship, and even that desire wasn’t borne from want of the throne alone. I wanted a Father. Someone who cared, not about my strength, not as a tool, but as a person. I wanted someone to stand in front of me, protect me, to keep me safe from Morgana. I wanted someone to give me something I’d never had, the love of a parent. I wanted someone I could rely on no matter what. And I believed that a father would be that person. And when Morgana told me you were my father, I was so happy. How could I not be? I’d dreamed of having a father, dreamed of having someone who cared, but I never believed it would become true.  _

_ But it was. _

_ I had a father, and it was you. _

_ King Arthur. The perfect, wonderful King of Knights who had led a tumultuous land into a golden age. I was more than happy, I was ecstatic, because it was perfect. You didn’t have an heir, there was no reason for you to deny me. And I could take the throne in your stead, so you would no longer have to bear the weight of kingship alone. I didn’t think about what this would mean to you, I just ran, ran towards your light, certain of the outcome. _

_ And then you left me, left me in that room, alone, screaming at the walls. I had been given hope, hope for something I thought I would never have, and then you snatched it away. Crushed it beneath your heel and tossed the remains to the courtyard below, where Morgana was probably watching and laughing. And then I lost myself, betrayed myself and you, allowed my anger to burn out of my control. _

_ If I could not be your son, I would be your enemy. _

_ If you would not face me, then I would make you face me.  _

_ I think that you’ll be glad to know that I don’t think like that anymore. Not normally, at least. I know that my anger will always be a part of me, it is what drives my Noble Phantasm, I cannot lose it. But I also know that we have been forced into a situation where we are on the same side again, and with my luck, we’ll have to fight as allies at least once before it is all over. _

_ So I’m trying again. I acknowledge, Father, that my original request was badly worded. I made you think I cared only about the Throne, although that was never the case. You were right, I would not have been a good king, I understand that now. But I have also grown, and learned, and the person I am today might have been worthy to take the throne in your place.  _

_ Beyond that, I want to know why? You had no heir, despite my words, you should have been at least thoughtful about the request. But you weren’t. So why? Why did you not acknowledge me as your son and heir? Why did you not tell me your reasons so I could understand? Why did you walk away not once, but twice? Why did you approach me, only to try to take the fall for my own action? I don’t understand, and I would like to. I think it would help, a bit. _

_ I want to make clear that I am not trying to get you to acknowledge me as your son this time. I am not trying to get you to acknowledge me as your heir. I just want to know. So I can understand, and reach a place where I don’t panic or grow angry at the sight of you. Please, Father, tell me. Just, tell me why. That’s all I need from you.  _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Mordred. _

Mordred walked through the halls of Chaldea, hands in his pockets, feet kicking against the ground. In one fist, he held Fran’s tulip, felt the press of it against his palms. His heart was beating,  _ too  _ loud,  _ too  _ fast, his breath stuttering in the back of his throat, but that was all. No memories of Camelot or Camlann rising from the deep to drag him down, simply . . . he felt like he’d just ended a fight of the worst kind. Not like the ones with the Chaos Crew, something to bleed out the restlessness and bloodlust. No, this was closer to Camelot, after Bedivere’s words, faking, faking until he faded away, a sour taste lingering in his mouth. Or perhaps it was closer to the feeling of being locked in that room for the first time, a sword heavy and unfamiliar in his small palms, facing a foe three times his size. 

_ Sick _ . He felt  _ sick _ . And shaky, and tired, as if he could lay down and sleep for a dozen years.  _ Lost _ . He felt  _ lost _ . And broken, a bit, his eyes burning, blurring the halls before him. He didn’t know where he was going, he just walked. Forwards. Away from Father and her startled expression.

What had he been expecting?

_ Whatever _ , it was done, over with. The letter was given. It was out of his hands now. And all he could do was walk and try to keep the tears from burning their way down his cheeks. He wanted his anger back, it was easier to understand then this, the heat of it, how it lent him strength when he needed it. He felt so  _ young  _ now, a child, lost and alone and vulnerable, and he wanted to hate it but for some reason he  _ couldn’t _ . 

He turned a corner, a corridor devoid of the normal cluster of Heroic Spirits or staff or robots. His back hit the side of a wall, he slid down it, the cold of the metal sinking through his jacket and jeans. He pulled out Fran’s tulip, rolling it between his fingers, watching the red petals twirl and twirl. He tried to pull up that feeling of peace he felt when he was near her, but it stayed out of his reach. He sucked in a deep breath, and it rattled down his throat. A pained noise, caught between his teeth. His shoulders shook. He pulled his knees to his chest and hid his face, wrapping his arms around his legs. He could feel the liquid soaking against his jeans, into the fabric, as he tried to stifle his sobs. 

It was  _ over _ . He’d done what he’d needed to do. He  _ didn’t  _ even know if Father had read the letter, opened the contents, but all he could do was sit there and cry and hope that no one would walk down this corridor. Hoped that _ for once _ , his luck would hold and go his way. Gudao had said it was okay to cry, but it didn’t feel okay. Crying had never gotten him anywhere, his rage had gotten him further. Further along the wrong path. 

Another choked of sob, breaking past his lips, small and weak and  _ helpless _ . He clenched the paper tulip between his fingers, hearing the paper crinkle. He tried to loosen his grasp so it didn’t get damaged. It was so  _ stupid _ , how he was hung up on such a small thing, but somehow, it was grounding. A little sliver of  _ safety  _ while his whole world tipped around him.

“Sir Mordred.”

He froze, stiffening, his sob stalling in his throat. He didn’t look up as the footsteps sounded. There was the rustle of cloth, the crinkle of paper, the sound as someone sat against the floor. “I,” a sigh, “forgive you, for Camlann. I knew, for the longest time, that Camelot would fall. There was no question, I could only hold back it’s destruction for so long. And I accepted that. I do not blame you, for what you did, and despite your words, I know that I pushed you to that outcome. I hope you may come to forgive me, for that. In life, I had no regrets. I set aside my humanity for my people. I believed it was the right thing to do. But, after Camlann, during those years in Avalon, I realized something. I led you all, but I did not lead you. As a collective, you were my knights, but I never looked past that. It has not hurt just you. It hurt Guinevere, and Lance, and Bedi, and Tristian, and Gawain, and no doubt the other knights who are summoned in the future will have been hurt by my actions. I was not good, at connections, at explaining myself. I have only recently gotten better at it. So I will try my best to explain what happened to you. Why I could not accept you as my son, or as my heir.

“On the night of my coronation, Merlin made me a man, so Guinevere and I could secure the future of Camelot. It did not work. For nine long years, we believed that Merlin’s spell was faulty, or I had done something wrong, or Guinevere could not bear a child. In that time, you came to our court, another knight who proved himself in the tests. You were strong, and brash, and rough about the edges, but never had I seen someone so devoted to the throne. You would call me out on my actions, me and the other knights, but the minute anyone would say anything against us, you would be at their throats. We did not know who you were, where you came from, or why you didn’t show your face. We did not care, did not question. We should have, but we did not.

“That day, you came to me, I was thinking about the future of Camelot. Where it would go, after my death. What would happen, to its people. I often did, while the others were feasting or sleeping. It helped me focus on my mission. Then you came, you with your helm down and my face on display. You called yourself Morgana’s son. You called yourself my son. You begged for the throne, for me to name you heir, and I could not answer you. I could not accept you and your pleas. But neither could I explain it to you. For nine long years, I thought Merlin’s spell had not worked, that it was all for naught, only to find that it had. And it was not with Guinevere that I - that it was -” she sighed. “Your mother, my sister, never did anything in halves. Why ruin me once when she could ruin me twice? I am sorry that I could not tell you why, I am sorry, and I hope you can forgive me for that.”

Mordred dug his fingernails into his knees. Carefully, he looked up. Father sat there, her back pressed against the wall opposite of him, legs crossed. Glitter clung to her skirt, her shirt, her hair, her hands. It caught on his letter, held carefully between her fingers. He swallowed hard, and when he spoke, his voice was a rasp. “She’s fucking rotten, isn’t she?”

Father made a sound that might have been a rasp. “She has venom in her veins.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You should not be, it was not your fault.”

He uncurled, stretching his legs out before him. “Thank you, for telling me . . . about why you could not accept me. And . . . I forgive you for not telling me sooner.”

Something twisted her lips, something that might have been a smile if the situation wasn’t so fucked up. “In this,” She ran her finger across the page, “you called me perfect. I want you to know that I was never perfect. I tried so hard to be, and it only hurt everyone around me. That day, when you were sparring with Achilles, I did not mean to hurt you, I did not mean to turn away. You were sparring, I thought it would be rude of me to interrupt, and I apologize for what became of it.”

He winced, “Fuck. Yeah, fuck.”

“Fuck indeed,” and his eyes jerked to her at the sound of the cuss word. She wasn’t looking at him, her gaze focused on the page. “As for why I did approach you, it was not to take the blame for your actions. It was . . . so we could have something similar to this talk. I wanted to tell you that I am sorry for not approaching you sooner. I have not been treating you fairly, not as my knight, nor as my . . . son.” Mordred  _ froze _ , and Artoria took a deep shuddering breath. “I too, would like to try again, to build the bonds I should have had with my knights while alive. I do not expect you to serve me, but . . . I would like you to give me that chance. If you can bring yourself to do so.”

“You . . . you called me son.” He was trembling, shaking into a million itty bitty pieces. “You called me son.”

She looked at him, her blue-green eyes blurry. “That is something I must try to remedy too. Morgana . . . complicates things. She hurt me, but she hurt you too, and as much as I may have wished to deny it, the connection is there. We are blood. I cannot promise to be a good father, I have never been a father before, but I can try.” She smiled, something soft and wobbly, “And I can assure you that Irisviel will make a much better mother then Morgana ever was.”

Mordred choked, a sob rising in his throat, catching then pushing out, loud into the air. Then another, then another, until all he could see was his tears. He wanted to lunge forwards, to grab her and hold onto her so she  _ could not _ leave, so she  _ could not _ take it all back, but he didn’t know  _ how _ . So he just broke, broke into a dozen pieces, shaking out of control, sobs wracking his frame. He heard her move, muffled beneath his cries, heard the shift of her skirt as she sat close and drew him to her. He latched onto her shirt, the fabric on her shoulder soaking in his tears. Carefully, she pulled him into a hug, stroking his hair, and he didn’t stiffen, didn’t try to pull away. He wasn’t sure he would have even if he could. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Mordred,” she murmured, and he clung tighter as all the tears he’d never unleashed during life poured onto her shoulder, a flood, something unstoppable and impossible to control. “I promise you, I am not going anywhere.” Her shoulders were shaking, there was a catch in her throat, and somehow, Mordred knew that she was crying too.

And somehow, it felt right, like a piece had clicked into place, as if some of his scars were being washed away by this flood of water. It  _ wouldn’t  _ be perfect, this couldn’t wash away everything, there were too many mistakes, too many mishaps, but it was  _ start _ , and more than Mordred had hoped for. It was a  _ beginning _ , a second  _ chance _ , an offer of something he’d never had in life.

Mordred Pendragon was three when he saw King Arthur for the first time.

Mordred Pendragon was six when he became a knight in King Arthur’s court.

Mordred Pendragon was nine when he felled Camelot and killed his father on the blood soaked hill of Camlann.

Mordred Pendragon was two thousand, six hundred and twenty three when he and his father finally put the past behind them, and began to start anew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to say a few things before I go:   
> The Chaos Crew, Knights of the Round, Irisviel, and Emiya were totally keeping everyone out of the hallway while that conversation happened.  
> Just to add some levity to the ending, Artoria is still covered in glitter, so Mordred will have a glitter mask once he’s done crying. And everyone knows how hard it is to get glitter off . . .  
> Bedivere has the weirdest taste in food, and no one can convince me otherwise. He spent over two thousand years travelling the world, you can’t tell me he hasn’t eaten the weirdest shit. Also, he was immortal that whole time. There was no way he didn’t start eating random things because they couldn’t kill him.  
> As for the schedule for further updates in the Servant Shenanigans series, this is the current plan. Next up is something for Fuuma and Proto that I’ve been thinking about for a while but never got around to doing. There will be a Christmas story. After Proto and Fuuma I’m going to do something for Fran and Mordred. I will also possibly do a follow up one shot for this story, but beyond that is an ambiguous haze that depends on how long it takes to get those stories done.   
> And finally, thank you all so much for your support! You people are the absolute best!


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